


The Kingdoms Behind Their Eyes

by whatthedruidscallme



Series: Kingdoms [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Merthur - Freeform, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Scars, a sprinkle of angst, king regent, merwaine - Freeform, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthedruidscallme/pseuds/whatthedruidscallme
Summary: The cold throne of Camelot, built on steel and harsh battlecries, is a seat Arthur Pendragon has been trained his entire life to take. Uther Pendragon is nothing more than a living corpse that still waits for an estranged daughter to return to him, and when the responsibilities of ruling the kingdom Arthur stills thinks of as his father's come down on him, he buckles beneath it. The council that should bow to their king regent is full of men with veiled ideas and eyes that glitter in the wake of Arthur's grief, boys that are hardly more than children kneel to be knighted, and sleep does not come to him no matter how his eyes close or his limbs weaken. As Arthur contends with challenges that burn bright in the light of day and brighter still in the gloom of his mind, he learns the comfort of fearless words from the clear-eyed servant he calls a friend, and discovers that Merlin is not only an extension of Arthur, but a man with insight, kindness, and his own tribulations.
Relationships: Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Kingdoms [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189688
Comments: 22
Kudos: 282
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	The Kingdoms Behind Their Eyes

“Thank you, Leon, for the report,” Arthur says, scrubbing a weary hand across his face. “Is there anything else I need to made aware of before council is adjourned?”

Of the many knights and lords sitting uncomfortably in the throne room, not one of them makes a sound. They all avoid Arthur’s gaze, until at last he sighs and says, “Fine. Dismissed, all of you. Report to Sir Leon and Sir Elyan for tasks and patrols.”

A faint buzz of conversation floats through the room as the strain of the meeting is broken, but Arthur doesn’t move. He waits until the room has emptied out and red cloaks vanish around the corner, ignoring the many concerned side-glances and vague mutters he gets, and then puts his head in his hands. Behind him, Merlin yawns.

“Too early for a council, Sire,” Merlin says. His voice is still hoarse with sleep; he hasn’t spoken since council began two hours ago.

“I guess so,” Arthur says, face muffled in his hands. “A mistake.”

Merlin steps round so he’s standing in front of Arthur instead of behind. “So why call it?” he asks, and he sounds unusually docile. Under other circumstances this careful sympathy would make Arthur want to scowl and say something rude, but he’s too exhausted to do anything but answer truthfully.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Arthur admits. “I thought attending to kingdom matters might help wake me up.”

“You couldn’t sleep, so you decided to start a meeting discussing actual important things when your brain is screaming to go to bed.” Merlin surveys him critically. “Maybe next time just get me up or something. Don’t wake the whole kingdom just because you’re tossing and turning.”

“I thought it was a good idea at the time,” Arthur snaps and gets up, striding through the throne room and up the stairs as Merlin hurries to catch up. “Next time I’ll wake you at four in the morning just for fun, how would you like that?”

“Probably better than all the rest of my chores,” Merlin mumbles, and Arthur ignores it.

The day passes in a haze of fatigue. From breakfast until dinner Arthur’s eyes keep slipping closed like there’s weight tied to his eyelids. He sees Merlin’s concerned looks just as much as the rest of the glances he gets, but somehow these aren’t as easy to shake off, and he finds himself gritting his teeth to keep from shouting abuse at him, knowing that Merlin only means the best.

The evening is gentle in its appearance, muted clouds of dusk stealing over the darkening sky. This is when Arthur makes the visit he makes every other night, walking alone down that abandoned corridor with mingled fear and hope. The dread he so often feels now brushes at him with feather-soft touches, tendrils of guilt snake into his brain, rumours of doubt coil in his ears. When he arrives at the door it takes a moment before he can steel himself long enough to go in, and his courage coarsens and turns to something sour, like bruised fruit left too long in the baking sun.

When he at last enters the king’s chambers, he finds everything exactly as it was the night before.

Uther is sitting slumped by the window, the flame of a guttering candle reflecting in his glassy stare. Arthur passes Gwen, who smiles wistfully and strokes his arm before leaving him. The gesture isn’t accompanied by the same rush of warmth it used to be. Arthur hears the door shut behind her, and that’s when he sighs and sits down opposite his father. Uther makes no sign that he’s either seen or heard his son. His gaze remains fixed on the window and the flat darkness behind it.

“Father,” Arthur says dully.

There’s nothing. Only the steady intake of breath and the slight rise and fall of his sunken chest tells Arthur that Uther is alive at all. His hair looks greyer than it had before, and Arthur can’t tell if that’s due to his own imagination or his father’s aging. He looks…small like this, a feeble child in need of support. Any traces of the robust, hardy king are vanished now, and in his place is a shell of a man. Arthur can hardly picture the person sitting before him sentencing people to death, leading armies, fighting for his kingdom. There is simply nothing left.

It’s too much for Arthur tonight. The lack of sleep and the clear questioning of his ability by his people, the sudden responsibility thrust on his shoulders that he’s not ready for, all of it squeezes his insides and Arthur shuts his jaw with an audible snap before shoving his chair back and leaving the room without another word.

It’s late when he makes it back to his own chambers but Merlin is still there, dozing in a chair by the table. At the sound of the door opening he lurches up and rubs his face, his gaze fastening on Arthur with the tinge of worry and pity he’s so familiar with by now.

“How was it?” Merlin asks. His voice seems to bruise the silence that’s broken only by the muted snap and pop of the fire in his hearth.

“Same as always,” Arthur answers shortly. “Help me undress.”

Merlin gets up without complaint—strange for him—and does as he’s told, nimble, practiced fingers methodically stripping Arthur of his clothes. Arthur closes his eyes and tries to empty his mind of everything except the moment he’s living in, the smell of the flames, the sound of material rustling, the cool stone beneath his bare feet, Merlin’s scarred fingers brushing against his back and leaving trails of heat behind.

“You need a haircut,” Merlin says in an undertone, rupturing the spell.

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, which is admittedly longer than he’s ever let it get. Strands the colour of corn silk fall around his ears, and Arthur gives his head an experimental shake. “Maybe,” he concedes. “Not really what I’m preoccupied with right now. Besides, you need to shave.”

Merlin gives him a crooked grin for the comment, and it’s true; the dark stubble shadowing his jaw is odd. It almost makes him look older, different from the young boy that tripped into Arthur’s chambers so long ago. His eyes look darker, more thoughtful, and the black hair curling on the nape of his neck is also longer than it usually gets before Gaius takes a pair of shears to it.

“So Gaius tells me,” Merlin says, letting Arthur’s shirt slide from his shoulders and fall to the floor. “He doesn’t approve. Thinks it makes me look unfit for the position I hold, like I don’t take care of myself.”

“That’s a fair point,” Arthur says and turns around to face him full-on, poking him in his stomach. Merlin snorts and clutches his abdomen with a mock-injured expression. “I daresay if I wanted to, I could count your ribs. Or the knobs on your spine. Or—”

“I get the picture,” Merlin says. He waves a indifferent hand. “It’s not like you’re looking your best either, _Sire_.”

Arthur’s breath seizes in his throat. He knows Merlin is right. Something else he can’t quite bring himself to face. “I look fine. I don’t need a haircut right now.”

“One day I’m just going to attack you with a pair of shears, then we’ll see what happens,” Merlin threatens, now sliding a shift over Arthur’s head.

“You’d be put to death for trying to assassinate a king,” Arthur says, wriggling into a pair of breeches. “That’s what would happen.”

“At least you’d look better at the hanging.”

Arthur snorts and sits on his bed, waiting for him to finish dousing the lights. “Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Goodnight, Sire,” Merlin says, and blows out the last glowing candle before leaving the room.

It’s no good. Arthur’s eyes are burning, his body is screaming to sleep, but the sheets stick to his skin and the shift makes his skin itch and the room is too silent. All he can do is think. The trade routes Nemeth wants to set up, the mysterious assailant found just inside the city, the flush amount of druids within the borders, all this and a thousand other things roil inside his mind. Arthur groans and buries his head in a pillow.

But the pillow is dense and stifling, so Arthur tosses aside the covers, gets up, and throws the windows open. This allows for a healthy breeze, but now the curtains are rippling strangely in the dark, almost alive, almost conscious, and he’s wondering what menace lurks beneath them.

Arthur casts around for another idea and when he lands on one, he’s not sure if it’s the result of his exhaustion or simple desperation. It’s true that enough wine almost always sends him to sleep, but if he wakes up the next morning with a hangover it will be impossible to live down. Not to mention Merlin has never been particularly punctual about changing out the pitcher in his room, which means the drink currently sitting on the table has most likely been airing out for a week.

Uther’s face swims to the front of Arthur’s memory again and a wave of fury crackles in his bones. It’s enough to make him throw caution to the wind. He pads barefoot over to the table, pours a sloppy goblet of wine and downs it all in four swallows. He then bends over to cough, mouth working—he’s right, Merlin hasn’t touched that thing for ages. It’s rich and spiced, flooding through the cracks between his teeth and underneath his tongue, and he has to work to keep it down.

He’s lost count of how many times he's refilled his cup when the door creaks open so suddenly that Arthur gives a massive start and immediately drops the goblet, which clangs against the floor.

“Damn!” Arthur says loudly, and squints into the darkness to see a familiar silhouette—it’s Merlin. Of course it is.

“Arthur?” Merlin says, gawking at him. “What’re you doing?”

“What am _I_ doing?” Arthur says, his words running together. He lunges forward to make a grab for Merlin’s tunic—he’s still dressed—but Merlin stumbles back and he misses. “What’re _you_ doing?”

“I’ve been out gathering herbs for Gaius that can only be picked under moonlight—are you _drinking_? It’s three in the morning.”

“Doesn’t explain why you’re in my bedroom,” Arthur says, sitting down and endeavoring to look dignified.

“I left my key here, Gaius locks the door ever since that assailant was found in the lower town…why are you drinking? I haven’t changed that pitcher out in ages.”

“I can’t sleep,” Arthur moans, dignity already forgotten, and hits his head hard with the palm of his hand. “I just want to sleep, but I can’t…”

Merlin leans down so he’s level with Arthur, and he doesn’t really see how it happens but somehow the darkness vanishes and a candle is burning merrily away on the table. Merlin looks softer in the dim light; the angles of his face are gentler and the shadows play weirdly off of his eyes. Arthur’s stomach does an uneasy flip.

“You need to rest,” Merlin decides, like he’s a physician and Arthur’s his patient. “Come on, I’m taking you to bed.”

“ _Are_ you now?” Arthur asks insolently, just as Merlin taking his arm over his shoulders and heaves him upward. “Ouch—you know, I don’t think I’d mind if you did,” he continues as Merlin struggles towards the bed, Arthur’s feet dragging underneath him. His legs feel like jelly and Merlin’s hand gripping his waist is causing goose bumps to erupt on his skin. “Everyone already thinks—oof!”

Merlin tosses him on the bed and places his hands on his hips, looking down at Arthur splayed out on the covers with satisfaction. “There. Done.”

“We’re not finished,” Arthur grumbles before his hand shoots out like lightning, curls around the fraying hem of Merlin’s shirt, and jerks him forward. Merlin sputters incoherently as his knees knock against the bedframe and he trips forward, landing spectacularly on Arthur. He’s warm and lean and entirely welcome to Arthur, who wraps his arms around Merlin and rolls to the side, pinning him underneath. Merlin is still shoving at him, protesting breathlessly, but there’s a different quality to his complaints now.

Arthur grins and leans his elbows on either side of Merlin, effectively caging him in and pressing the lengths of their bodies together.

“Still opposed to taking me to bed?” Arthur says, feeling Merlin shudder underneath of him as he deliberately leans forward and skims his lips against Merlin’s neck.

“I—yes, I am, this isn’t—” Merlin breaks off into a yelp as Arthur’s hand traces down his chest to the waistband of his breeches. Merlin takes advantage of the opportunity to shove Arthur to the side and scramble upward and away, straightening his shirt and blushing violently.

“What was that for?” Arthur reaches out to take Merlin’s hand again, but he shakes his head and takes a step away.

“You—you’re drunk, Arthur,” Merlin says, his tone wavering. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Believe me, I do,” Arthur says, with the wryness that only one who is truly drunk can exude.

But Merlin shakes his head again, backing away until his back hits the door. “If you need me— _really_ need me—I’ll be in the antechamber.” Then he wrenches the door open and flees, leaving Arthur with a gaping feeling of emptiness, humiliation, and a headache that’s already beginning to pound.

The wine does its job. Arthur sinks into a thick, syrupy sleep that sticks to him until morning light assaults him—but even as wrong-footed and ill as he feels, he can tell the sun is in the wrong place for it to be morning.

With a colossal effort, Arthur rolls to the side and scrubs at his eyelids, which feel like sand and grit have been accumulating under them for an age. He lets out a grunt and at the corner of his eye, a head of dark hair snaps up.

“Merlin?” Arthur groans, and props himself up on an elbow. “What’re you doing sitting there?”

“Waiting for you to wake up,” Merlin says with a half of a sallow, forced smile. He comes closer but he’s hesitant, more so than he’s ever been in Arthur’s service, and Arthur frowns. He’s about to open his mouth to demand Merlin stop being so skittish when an indistinct memory of the night before strikes him, and his eyes widen. He can’t possibly be remembering right. He can’t have done that.

“Merlin,” Arthur says urgently, and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. Merlin doesn’t recoil, but he doesn’t move closer either. Arthur ignores the splitting pressure in his head that feels like it’s about to burst, the confusing angle of the sun and the stiffness of his body and forces himself to stay sitting on the edge of the bed. “Merlin, I am—I cannot express how sorry I am for last night. I was clearly drunk, as you knew, but that’s no excuse for my poor behavior. I should never have acted that way towards you, or—or forced you to do anything you didn’t want to do. You were there at an inopportune time, and I took advantage. For that, you have my sincere apology.”

Merlin blinks. “You’re a lot more eloquent when you’re apologizing. You should do it more often.”

“I’m serious,” Arthur says, ignoring the jab. “I’m sorry for what I did. It never should have happened. You should take the day off to—to recover.”

Shockingly, Merlin laughs. “There’s not much day left, Sire. It’s four o’ clock in the afternoon.”

“It’s—it’s what?” Arthur gasps, mind whirling. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You needed the sleep,” Merlin says noncommittally. “I told them all you were sick. They believed it easily enough. Probably something to do with the lack of eating, sleeping, and generally erratic behaviour.”

“I’m not erratic.”

“Not usually.” Merlin takes another step closer so he’s standing only a few inches from Arthur, and then he sits down on the floor and crosses his legs so he’s looking up into Arthur’s face. His expression grows unbearably gentle. “You aren’t yourself, Arthur. You don’t like to take baths anymore, I ask the cook to make your favourite and you don’t eat it, you spend hours shut away up here doing nothing, and last week, you didn’t even complain when I missed a spot on your sword.”

Arthur lets out a small, feeble snort. “Is that what tipped you off?”

“I know I’m an awful servant and you really only keep me around because you like throwing things at me, but I know you very well by now. Let me help you. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

Arthur feels something building up in his throat, something impossible for him to describe. All he can think is that he can’t remember anyone ever offering help so openly to him, and he’s never wanted to accept it the way he does now. Before he knows it hot tears are spilling down his face and sliding past his jaw down his neck, and he makes no attempt to wipe them away. “I just,” he chokes out, feeling horribly vulnerable, “I just don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Merlin whispers, inexorable pity and kindness in his eyes, and then he’s leaning forward and drawing Arthur into a hug, but the air in his throat hitches and he pushes Merlin away, shaking his head.

“You—you can’t possibly want to touch me,” he says. “Not after what I did last night.”

Incredibly, Merlin smiles. “I forgive you for that.”

“You can’t—”

“I can,” Merlin says, and then a thin, strong hand is pulling Arthur to the floor and arms are enveloping him. Arthur buries his head in the crook between Merlin’s shoulder and neck and breathes him in, trying as hard as he can not to cry, but it doesn’t matter, a small sob escapes him anyway. At the sound of it Merlin tightens his hold, and Arthur feels like a child accepting sympathy for the first time and clings to the sensation for as long as he can bear to.

“You’re okay,” Merlin says. “You’re not alone. I’m here. It’s okay to be overwhelmed. You’re dealing with so much right now, I know you are. You have people to help you.”

“I’m just worried,” Arthur says shakily. “What if they’re all waiting for me to fail, what if they all know that I’m just faking and I don’t really know what I’m doing?”

“Not a single soul in this entire kingdom thinks that,” Merlin states. “They all watched you grow into who you are today. You’re not faking it, it just feels like you are because this is all new to you.”

There’s a queer inflection in Merlin’s voice, a strange and wholly solid oath to his words and something about that reassures Arthur more than anything else does.

He presses his face into Merlin’s shirt for just another moment more before drawing back and trying for a weak, trembling smile, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “So I’m sick, huh?” he says. “You shouldn’t have stayed.”

Merlin shrugs. “All I had to do was sit in a comfortable chair and sleep until you woke up, so I wasn’t complaining.”

“Of course not,” Arthur says.

“You’ve got at least the rest of the day to recuperate,” Merlin says. “Maybe you should let me draw a bath. You can relax for a bit. Maybe take Gaius’s hangover cure.”

Arthur nods, too weary from both the aftermath of the wine and the toll of his emotional distress to disagree. “Yeah. That sounds like a decent plan.”

Merlin gives him a smile before rising to his feet. “Stay here. I’ll get the water and the cure, and all I want you to do is sit there and not drink or vomit.”

Arthur manufactures a watery laugh. “Will do.”

The half hour that passes while Merlin is gone is sluggish and discomforting. Arthur wants to pace but can’t make himself get up, and with Merlin reappearing every so often with another bucket of water or a towel, he really doesn’t want to vomit by overdoing it.

At last the tub is filled with sweet, clean water, and Arthur tries not to think as Merlin undresses him. He does it soundlessly, experienced hands going exactly where they need to be and no further. He’s humming, which Arthur should find irritating. He doesn’t bother to work out why he doesn’t. When the clothes fall away and Arthur steps into the bath, he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Burning hot, just as you like it, Sire,” Merlin says, giving him a mock bow.

Arthur leans back and closes his eyes. The water laps at his chest, at the ends of his hair, and the liquid heat makes his body loosen.

“Open your mouth.”

Arthur’s eyes snap open. “ _What_?”

Merlin waves a small vial of green liquid in his face. “Hangover cure. Better if you don’t think about it.”

“Oh,” Arthur says foolishly, and opens his mouth. The concoction spills over his lips and his tongue and he nearly gags just from the smell of it. He swallows it all in one go, eyes and throat scorching, and coughs. He glares up at Merlin.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, making a face. “Didn’t say it was pleasant.”

“Should’ve noted that,” Arthur says thickly.

After he’s clean and the water is no more than lukewarm he rises from the tub, rivulets of water pouring off of him. Merlin hands him a towel and Arthur dries himself off, rubbing at his hair until it sticks up in a wild, damp tangle.

Merlin snickers. “Lovely, Sire.”

“Yeah, looks like yours,” Arthur fires back, and is surprised by how easy it already is to slip back into a comfortable camaraderie. Granted, his throat is sore and his headache is still duly pounding away, but he feels easier than he has in weeks.

“Are you sure you won’t let me cut it?” Merlin presses.

“Only if you let me shave you,” Arthur says without thinking and then, once he’s processed his own words, immediately clears his throat and casts around for another topic. “Er—so how’s Gaius?”

“Gaius,” Merlin repeats. “Gaius is fine. Are you that hard up for something interesting to say?”

“I’m sick, shut up.”

“You are not, you’re viciously hung over,” Merlin says heartlessly, just as the door opens behind him and they both look around.

"Leon,” Arthur says, tying the towel at his waist. “Has asking for entrance gone out of fashion?”

“My apologies, Sire,” Leon says, eyes flickering downward. “It’s your father.”

Arthur nearly loses his grip on the towel. “It’s what?”

“Gaius is with him now. Gwen was assisting him with a change of clothes, and apparently he tried to speak. She couldn’t decipher what he was trying to say, so she sent for Gaius.”

“Dress me, Merlin,” Arthur says tersely, and Leon bows his head before leaving the room. Merlin works quickly and without talking, and the second the tunic is over his head Arthur leaves for the king’s chambers, Merlin following on his heels.

Arthur’s thoughts are a blur as he walks as quickly as he can without attracting attention. His mind is already spinning with far-off possibilities, anticipation is springing up inside and clawing at him like a weed; is the king coherent? Does he know where he is? Is he…getting better?

He squashes the thought, fearful of even thinking something so dangerously hopeful. If Uther would get better, all his problems would be solved in an instant. No longer would he have to worry about a position he’s not ready for, the pressure of so many people looking to him for what to do, order solutions he’s not sure about, comfort subjects who have no trust in him, treat with other kingdoms…. He would be, if not free, at least less trapped.

The moment Arthur steps inside the room, his heart plummets. Gwen is speaking very low and very fast to Gaius, who’s listening intently, but in the corner, Uther’s silhouette is exactly the same as it was the last time Arthur saw him.

Gwen and Gaius’s conversation stops when Arthur appears. He ignores both of them and goes straight to Uther, and behind him, Gaius begins to speak to Merlin instead.

“Father?” Arthur says gently, and leans forward to lay a hand on Uther’s cold, sagging skin. “How are you?”

He waits, heart thudding in his chest, but there’s nothing. No flicker of recognition, not a twitch of the hand, not a sound. Arthur squeezes harder. “Father.”

Uther’s eyes remain fixed on the window.

Nausea surges in Arthur’s stomach as he leans back. It’s like talking to a corpse. A corpse with a poor imitation of his father’s face scrawled on it.

A warm hand rests on his shoulder, and Arthur looks up to find Merlin standing beside him. “Gaius doesn’t know,” he says, without waiting to be asked. “He says it’s unlikely your father will regain the same modicum of physical and intellectual ability any time soon, and whatever Gwen heard…was probably just a fluke. I’m sorry.”

“A fluke,” Arthur repeats. “Nothing more than a fluke.”

There’s a vague, aching pain in his shoulder. It’s a moment before he realizes Merlin’s fingers are biting into his skin through the cloth, probably making marks.

“Don’t, Merlin,” he says distantly, and the pain fades.

“Sorry,” Merlin murmurs. “Do you want to go back to your room?”

Arthur nods slowly, and lets Merlin take him by the arm and lead him, step by step, to the door. He doesn’t glance at either Gwen or Gaius as he passes them, though he feels like Merlin is making a worried face behind his back. He doesn’t bother to check.

He will never remember how he got back to his room. All he remembers is Merlin shutting the door behind him and the heat that sticks to Arthur’s body, as though the fire has been burning twice as hot as it usually does.

“Warm,” Arthur says in a daze.

“You like it warm,” Merlin reminds him quietly.

“I think…you know too much about me.”

All Arthur gets in return is a quiet laugh.

“Arms up, Sire,” Merlin says, and Arthur groans.

“Can’t I just sleep in my clothes?”

“You have to eat first. You haven’t eaten all day. Someone else is coming up with your food right now. After you’re done you can sleep.”

“I don’t want to eat. I just want to sleep.”

“That’s called ignoring the problem,” Merlin mutters. He undresses Arthur—it feels like the tenth time today—and makes him sit down at the table when his food arrives. Arthur pushes it unenthusiastically around his plate but Merlin is sitting across from him, head propped up on his hand and watching him with sharp eyes.

“I can’t, Merlin,” Arthur says, sitting back and dropping his fork with a clatter. “Really. Can’t I just go to bed?”

“A little more,” Merlin coaxes. “Come on. If you start leaving this much food behind, I’m going to start stealing it, and you’re going to hate that.”

“Fine,” Arthur mumbles grudgingly. He eats a few more bites, all the while feeling it’s going to come back up as soon as he swallows, and finally pushes the plate away with a groan of relief.

“All right, bed,” Merlin says, and lets him go. It’s not until Arthur is lying in bed, watching Merlin extinguish the candles that he finally says what’s been pushing at him all afternoon.

“Will you stay with me?” Arthur asks abruptly.

“Hmm?” Merlin says, trying to blow out a particularly tenacious candle.

“Stay with me tonight?”

“What, in the antechamber? If you want me to.”

“No—” Arthur closes his eyes and prays for patience. “Here. In the room.”

Merlin pauses. “You want me to sleep here? In the room with you? Why?”

“I just—I can’t sleep alone right now,” Arthur mutters unwillingly. “But if you’re uncomfortable, I—”

“I’m not,” Merlin answers too quickly. “I—just let me get something to wear from my room.” He begins to move towards the door but something cold is clutching at Arthur’s heart; some aberrant part of him is terrified Merlin will leave and never come back if he closes that door right now.

“No!” Arthur says, and it rings through the room. Merlin turns back, so surprised that Arthur feels embarrassed and waves a feeble, dismissive hand. “Just—borrow something. I don’t mind.”

Merlin’s eyebrows rise until they disappear into his hair. “You want me to wear your clothes? Have you gone mad?”

“No,” Arthur snaps. “Just borrow something and shut up before I change my mind.”

Merlin stares at him for a long moment, but to Arthur’s relief, he seems to accept this strange turn of event and shrugs, walking towards Arthur’s wardrobe. “If you say so,” he says. He opens the cabinet and doesn’t bother looking for privacy when he pulls out one of Arthur’s more worn shifts. Instead, to Arthur’s shock, he pulls off his shirt right there in one swift movement. Arthur swallows, unable to tear his eyes away from so much bare skin, the long curve of his back, and Merlin turns around to glance at him. Arthur is faced with not only skin but also a shock of scars, and for a moment, he can’t speak. His eyes rake over old injury after old injury, astonishment enveloping him whole. Yes, Merlin is a servant, and yes, his job entails hard work, but this is far beyond the scope of the ordinary. There are clear-cut love letters left by the grace of a sword, small, dark punctures adorning his chest that Arthur recognizes as arrows that found their marks, bizarrely shaped scars that cannot have been left by anything other than sorcery, and others decorating his torso that he cannot begin to comprehend. The nature of his wounds ring a faint bell in Arthur’s head, and he has to think before he realizes these are the type of scars that grizzled warriors with deep-set eyes and trembling hands bear after they’re past their prime. These are not marks of a difficult job. These are marks of a battle-hardened fighter, and it is a horrifically perverse tapestry on Merlin’s young body.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You look…weird.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur manages.

Merlin’s brow creases with concern as he pulls on Arthur’s shirt, and Arthur takes the brief moment his face is covered to collect himself, scrambling for a somewhat neutral expression that materializes just as Merlin’s face reappears.

“All right,” Arthur mutters, hardly able to look at him. “Get in.”

“Your _bed_?”

“Damn it, Merlin, yes! Would you get over it?”

There’s no response except for the sound of Merlin kicking off his boots and his bare feet padding towards the bed, the shift of the covers, and then the creak of the bedframe as he climbs in.

Arthur closes his eyes at the respite of having a real, living person next to him, a soothing presence he hadn’t realized he needed until the weight lifted off of his chest. He turns over to look at Merlin, and has to bite back a smile at how much of a child he looks; his dark hair is tousled, his eyes bright, and he’s grinning like he’s just tried sugar for the first time. His warmth is already radiating towards Arthur, and again he has to stop himself from moving closer.

“Turn out the light,” Arthur says, but instead of coming out annoyed, as he had intended it, it sounds outrageously endearing.

The flame of the candle disappears, leaving only darkness, heat, and the strange sensation of someone else lying right next to him.

“This shirt smells like you,” Merlin whispers, and Arthur’s heart does a leap.

“Shouldn’t it?” he asks awkwardly.

“Mm…thought I washed it.”

“Oh.”

“Goodnight, Arthur,” Merlin murmurs. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” Arthur breathes, and can’t help squeezing Merlin’s chilly hand before turning to the other side and shutting his eyes.

Sleep comes easily to Arthur that night, and it’s hours later before he’s woken with a start by the sound of a thud on the floor.

“What—” his hand automatically goes to the other side of the bed, searching for Merlin, who isn’t there. His hand encounters nothing but cool bedding, and his heart stutters to a halt. “Merlin?”

“Shit,” comes a harsh whisper from the floor, and a curl of anger sprouts in Arthur’s stomach.

“What the hell are you doing down there? Am I that horrible to sleep with?” Arthur asks irately, and edges over so he can see Merlin better.

He’s lying on the floor with a pillow and a throw blanket, and Arthur can see a dim, sheepish smile and eyes like gems in the darkness of early hours.

“Of course not. Just…after spending nearly twenty years sleeping on the floor and five more on a pallet—more or less—sleeping on a bed like yours is hard. I can’t fall asleep.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Arthur throws the blankets back and swings his legs on the floor, dragging one of the bigger covers down with him. He pulls it over himself and Merlin, who’s plainly flushing even in the dark. They’re much closer like this than on the bed.

“You don’t have to—” Merlin tries.

“Be quiet and go to sleep,” Arthur says irritably.

“Okay.”

It’s harder to sleep on the floor. Merlin is right beside him, relaxed and earnest and sweet and already drifting back to sleep. Arthur doesn’t know how he’s doing it. He’s slept on the ground dozens of times, but that was through necessity, and sleeping on a bitterly cold stone floor when there’s a bed right next to him is making it that much more difficult to get comfortable. That combined with the fact that he’s trying so hard to make sure not even his elbows brush against Merlin, he’s vividly aware of how awake he is.

The minutes are stretching on, and Arthur is just beginning to yield to the lateness of the hour when Merlin mutters something incomprehensible and throws an arm over Arthur’s chest. He sucks in a harsh breath, obscenely loud in the silence. Merlin turns and buries his face in Arthur’s arm, mouth pressing against his skin, and wedges his leg between his thighs, and Arthur’s beginning to feel light-headed.

“Merlin,” he mutters, hoping for some way, any way out of this, and surprisingly, Merlin jerks his head up, unfocused eyes locking on his. Arthur nearly jumps a foot in the air. “Fuck!”

“Arthur,” Merlin slurs. “Thought you told me to go to sleep.”

“You’re _on top_ of me,” Arthur hisses.

“Wasn’t a problem the other night,” Merlin mumbles, and there’s a flash of heat in Arthur’s belly before Merlin shifts back onto the floor.

Before the courage can ebb out of him, Arthur reaches forward and grabs Merlin’s hand, closing his eyes as their fingers interlock underneath the blanket. He waits with bated breath for the protest, but there’s nothing, only a contented sigh and Merlin’s thumb stroking the skin of his knuckles once before relaxing. They fall asleep like that, parallel on the floor, holding hands underneath a crumpled quilt.

The next time Arthur opens his eyes, pallid light is pouring in through the window. Merlin is still lying beside him, fast asleep, and they’re no longer holding hands. Instead Merlin is coiled up into him and Arthur’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders. Merlin’s head is tucked under his chin, hand resting on Arthur’s sternum, and Arthur is so warm and happy and content that he can’t bring himself to do anything about it. He’s not expected anywhere for an hour at least, more if he takes advantage of being supposedly sick, and Merlin’s job is lying right beside him.

He squeezes Merlin’s shoulders and presses his face into his hair without thinking about it, breathing in his scent of clean water and washing. Merlin mumbles something unintelligible and tightens his hold on Arthur.

His arm is beginning to go numb when Arthur, biting his lip, tries to move away. It doesn’t work, and Merlin immediately stirs, blinking bemused eyes at Arthur. “S’it time to get up already?” he asks groggily. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s wrapped around Arthur’s body like an attractive piece of outerwear.

“Not really. Just past dawn.”

“Mm,” Merlin replies cleverly, and without further ado, lays his head back on Arthur’s chest. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, his question muffled in Arthur’s shirt.

Arthur decides not to mention the piercing pain in his back, his numb arm or the bruises he’s probably got on his hip from lying on his side half the night. “Yeah. Did you?”

“Strange waking up under a comfortable blanket. ‘M so warm.”

“I think that’s more because of me than the blanket,” Arthur mutters, and sits up, Merlin protesting at his loss of a pillow. He gets up to stretch and his joints crack satisfyingly, but mostly he’s taking peeks at Merlin, who’s propped up on his elbows and displaying far more interest in being awake than he was a few seconds ago.

“You might want to get my breakfast, Merlin,” he says, and Merlin gives him a drowsy smile before standing and making towards the door.

“Er—maybe change first,” Arthur says hastily; the last thing he needs is a rumour starting about him sleeping with his manservant.

“Right,” Merlin says, and shrugs off Arthur’s shift. He holds his hand out for his own clothes, which are sitting in a neat little pile beside the wardrobe. Arthur flushes redder than a newly picked beet as he hands them to Merlin, who raises his eyebrows but says nothing as he pulls them on.

“I’ll be back with breakfast,” he says cheerfully. It’s only after he’s left that Arthur realizes the little red scarf that is so often curled around Merlin’s neck is still lying on his bed. He can’t say for the life of him why he does it, but before he loses his nerve, Arthur snatches it and shoves it beneath his pillow, where Merlin will be certain not to look—he changes the sheets only once a week, and he’d just done it the day before.

Feeling guilty and rather like he had just experienced a ‘morning after’ situation, Arthur has no taste for food when it comes and pushes it around the plate, hoping to make it look like he ate something while Merlin straightens the bed and hangs yesterday’s clothes. When he’s finished he looks at Arthur’s abandoned food and frowns, and he’s clearly about to say something when Arthur pushes back his chair with a loud screech and says the first thing that comes into his mind, “Eat something.”

Merlin shuts his mouth and then opens it again. “Excuse me?”

“Eat something,” Arthur says roughly. “There’s too much here.”

He’s out the door before Merlin can argue, and only realizes once he’s in the corridor that he’s not dressed. Muttering filth under his breath, he ducks into the first guest room he finds, and waits there until he hears the telltale signs of Merlin’s footsteps fading away.

Following the trend of the last few months, Arthur’s day is long and filled with so many petulant problems that he can hardly remember them all by the time it grows dark. He sends multiple patrols out to search for a suspiciously organized gang of bandits, which leaves Camelot dangerously exposed, but there’s nothing he can do about it. New knights are not doing well in training, one of them having accidentally slashed another’s ear off—Gaius had made sure to tell Arthur of that—and it’s clear that Leon is losing patience with the lot of them. He goes into the kitchens and gets dirty looks from nearly everyone working there before he realizes he hasn’t given the order for them to arrange new kitchen maids since four of them had quit at once. Gwaine follows him around all day, chatting about some attractive sorcerer who is presently locked in the cells for trying to strangle an entire patrol with their own capes until Arthur finally snaps and tells him no, the sorcerer isn’t getting off just because Gwaine thinks his hair is the prettiest shade of red he’s ever seen.

All in all, it is with a great amount of gratitude that he finally opens the door to his own chambers, which vanishes when he sees Merlin and Gwaine standing in them, both nearly doubled over with laughter.

Arthur stands there with his foot tapping and his arms crossed for as long as he can stand.

“Gwaine!” he barks, and Gwaine looks over at him, completely at ease. Arthur jerks his head towards the door. “Out.”

“Sure,” he replies, and to Arthur’s severe shock, leans forward and gives Merlin a swift kiss on the cheek before walking towards the door. Arthur watches Merlin’s eyes widen a fraction, and without knowing why, his blood begins to boil.

“Goodnight, princess. Merlin,” Gwaine says, turning around to wink before vanishing through the door.

“Goodnight,” Arthur growls, and has to exercise a massive amount of restraint not to slam the door on Gwaine’s heels. He wheels around to face to Merlin. “What was all that about?” he demands.

Merlin shrugs. “Nothing. You know Gwaine. He likes to have fun.”

“He certainly does,” Arthur mutters, stalking towards his table and sitting down.

“What’s the problem?” Merlin asks, chuckling. “You didn’t complain when he got into the kitchen and ate an entire batch of uncooked biscuits. He was sick for a week and couldn’t leave Camelot with you, and you still let him off the hook.”

“I’ve been too damn easy on him. First that, then asking for me to take a sorcerer out of holding just because Gwaine thinks he’s pretty, now he’s—he’s invading my privacy.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “He was in your chambers, talking to me. I can promise he didn’t go through any of your things.”

“Well, he might next time,” Arthur snaps. “Just go to bed, okay? I don’t need help getting undressed tonight.” The unspoken rebuff hangs between them, the understanding that he doesn’t want Merlin in his bed tonight, and there’s a pause before Merlin speaks.

“Fine,” he says, his tone clipped. “Goodnight, Sire.”

Arthur doesn’t answer, just buries his head in his arms after the door is shut and breathes in the cool quiet, wondering what on earth has got him so irascible so quickly. It’s not especially comfortable sitting at the table; his elbows dig into the wood and there’s goose flesh rippling up his arms, but he can’t quite bring himself to move. The rhythm of his breath is easy and regular, the candles cast an orange glow behind his eyelids, and he’s so, so tired…

Merlin finds him in the same position in the morning and shakes him gracelessly awake. Arthur lurches up, swinging out wildly with one arm and Merlin ducks before stepping away.

“No wonder you didn’t need my help last night,” he says, studying Arthur’s hectic appearance with a critical eye. “You didn’t even move after I left.”

“Shut up.”

“Still in a lovely mood, I see.”

“Shut up! And get me dressed, I’m going down to the training field as early as possible.”

“Why?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Arthur says coldly, trying to maintain whatever propriety he has left, “but I’m overseeing training today. Yesterday someone cut someone else’s ear off and Leon thinks they might listen better if it’s the pri—king regent addressing them.”

Merlin snorts. “Sure they will. They’re all insane with bloodlust, I don’t know what’s wrong with the lot of them.”

“Who told you that?”

There’s a short pause before he answers. “Gwaine.”

Naturally. “Just dress me.”

To his dismay, Merlin turns out to be right. When Arthur gets down to the field, Merlin meandering behind, he finds a pack of young men swinging swords aimlessly at each other instead of well-ordered and obedient soldiers. He shouts for them to get into formation and there’s a moment of stunned silence and wide-eyed gazes in his direction before they’re all jostling to do as they’re told.

The drills, if not well done, are certainly interesting. One starts a domino effect by tripping over his own spear, and the shock on his face is so comedic Arthur has to bite back a laugh. Instead, he shouts for them to get up and leads them into the next exercise, which ends with two men having a loud argument about the virtues of a barmaid, culminating in one having significantly less teeth than when the drill began.

Elyan, Gwaine, and Lancelot are there all the while, correcting footwork and grips, giving out encouragement and criticism alike. When Arthur finally dismisses everyone, his hair nearly on end over how many times he’s raked his hand through it, and none of the three of them look particularly hopeful.

“I just don’t know, Sire,” Elyan says grimly. “They don’t seem to want to work for it. A few are as eager and willing to learn as ever, but—”

“The rest are losing teeth and ears and everything else,” Arthur finishes with a sigh. “I know. I don’t know what to do.”

Just then, he hears a burst of familiar laughter and turns around to see Merlin and Gwaine chatting again. A small burst of anger flowers inside him again, but this time Arthur reins it in. When he turns back, Lancelot is looking at him a little too thoughtfully.

“All right,” Arthur says. “You may go. Thanks for all your help, I’m sure I’ll need it again before this lot is ready to do anything.”

They nod respectfully and trudge back across the field. Arthur turns back to Merlin just in time to see Gwaine glance at him, a mischievous glint in his eye, and then grab Merlin by the shirt, tug him forward, and kiss him hard on the mouth. Arthur’s eyes widen. His hands curl into fists by his side.

Gwaine’s arms wrap around Merlin’s waist, pulling him in, and Merlin makes a sound of protest before loosening in his grip, allowing himself to be manhandled. Something about that sends a jolt of heat through Arthur’s core, but the irrational flare of resentment overrules it and blood roars through his ears, screaming for him to pull Gwaine off of Merlin.

At last, after what seems like an age, Gwaine pulls away with a satisfied look and Merlin blinks, dazed.

“What was that for?” he asks, and Gwaine shrugs.

“Just wanted to see if your lips were as soft as they look.”

“And?” Merlin asks, a brazen smile curling up the edges of his lips.

He’s flirting, Arthur thinks, fuming. Actually _flirting_.

Gwaine leans in again. “Just as I suspected,” he says, loud enough for Arthur to hear, and grins in his direction before sauntering off. Merlin runs a hand through his hair, clearly out of breath, and then freezes when he turns to see Arthur staring at him.

“With me, Merlin,” Arthur says through gritted teeth. He says nothing else all the way back to his chambers, but he can feel the tension rolling off of Merlin all the way through the field, into the castle and up the stairs, and it’s only when the door to his room is shut behind him that his anger breaks loose.

“I don’t ever want to see that again,” Arthur says, slamming down his sword. “Do you understand me?”

“You’re not serious,” Merlin says, chuckling. “What’s the problem?”

“ _What’s the problem_?” Arthur repeats. “You—I can’t have you distracting my knights like that!”

Merlin throws up his hands. “I didn’t do anything! Gwaine kissed _me_ , Arthur, not the other way around. Why on earth does it matter to you?”

“Because Gwaine is one of my knights!” Arthur shouts. “He has responsibilities, things to do, and I won’t have him getting distracted by a servant!”

“Oh, so that’s the problem, that I’m a servant?” Merlin says, expression hardening. “You didn’t seem to have much of a problem when you were with Gwen, and Gwaine’s a knight, not a prince, so what is it? Really?”

“Exactly what I said,” Arthur bites out. “I don’t want you going around with Gwaine.”

Merlin laughs derisively. “You have no say over who I do or do not shag, Arthur, so—”

“ _Shag_?” Arthur says, his voice rising an octave in the single syllable.

“It’s none of your business if Gwaine kisses me, or even if I let him fuck me unless it’s on your bed!” Merlin yells, his face blazing with brilliant colour. “Which, if you keep going, it will be!”

“Merlin—” Arthur begins furiously, but it’s too late, Merlin has already left and slammed the door behind him. “Damn it,” he exhales, and whips a goblet across the room.

Merlin doesn’t speak to him for four long, torturous days. Arthur wakes up with his breakfast waiting by his bed, and Merlin silently appears when Arthur needs to get dressed. He says nothing, he doesn’t hum anymore, he simply takes Arthur’s washing and leaves. No matter when Arthur comes into his chambers afterwards, it’s empty. His chainmail shines in the afternoon sun, the bed is made, and a fire burns merrily in the hearth, but there’s no one there. Arthur knows if he wanted to see Merlin, he could easily go to Gaius’s chambers and ask for him, but something—perhaps his pride—won’t let him. Instead he just lets it continue, lets the silence stretch and hears his own words echoing back at him. He sees Gwaine kissing Merlin and gets angry all over again, and at night Merlin undresses him, gives a curt nod, and leaves the room.

On the fifth day, Arthur finally breaks. Merlin has already left his room for the night and he’s been lying in bed, staring at the door for an hour when he makes up his mind. He rips aside the blankets, walks across the room, and throws the door open. The guard there jumps but Arthur waves him away and keeps walking. He makes it all the way to Gaius’s door on sheer confidence before uncertainty washes over him and he stops, biting his lip. Both of them will be asleep. He’ll no doubt wake Gaius up on his way to Merlin’s room. Is it really worth it, just to see someone he’s going to see in the morning anyway?

He’s about to turn back when the idea of spending the entire night stewing with this hits him again, and before he can stop himself, he pushes on the door.

It’s locked.

Right. Gaius locks it now.

Arthur hisses in frustration. He can’t go back now, not after he’s come all this way, but he can’t get in either. There’s only one option. He squeezes his eyes shut and knocks on the door.

Boiling with humiliation, he waits until he hears someone shuffling around, and then the telltale sound of a key clicking in a lock. The door creaks open and Gaius stands behind it, clearly still half asleep. At the sight of Arthur, he raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” Arthur says, mortified. “I just—er—I wanted to see Merlin.”

“He’s sleeping, Sire.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

There’s a slight pause before Gaius heaves a sigh of the long-suffering and stands aside. “Be quick, Arthur. He was tired.”

“Of course, of course, um…thank you.”

Arthur walks past Gaius, praying to forget that encounter as soon as possible, and goes into Merlin’s room.

Gaius was right, Merlin must have been tired, because he lies on top of his bed fully dressed and sound asleep. His hair is a mess, shirt rucked halfway up his chest, and he’s talking rubbish in his sleep. Arthur can’t help grinning, but he only manages another step before Merlin’s head snaps up, and then there’s a pair of bleary blue eyes looking at him with vague alarm.

“Wh—Arthur?” Merlin says, scrubbing at his eyes as though he’s not sure he’s seeing properly. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Arthur says softly. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“You’re standing in my room in the middle of the night because you felt like being a creep?”

Arthur chokes back a painful laugh. “No. I just…wanted to apologize. You were right, whoever you— _shag_ —is none of my business,” he says somewhat sourly. “I shouldn’t have been upset.”

“Arthur, I appreciate that you’re apologizing…for the second time in a week…but I’m tired. Couldn’t this have waited until morning?”

“It could have, I just—I—I can’t sleep,” Arthur admits reluctantly.

Merlin’s expression softens. He stares at Arthur for a long time, who is just about to decide that it’s time for him to leave when Merlin swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“Okay,” he says abruptly.

“Uh—what?”

“You can’t sleep. Let’s go to bed.”

These words send a shiver down Arthur’s spine, and he doesn’t protest when Merlin walks out of his room, motioning for Arthur to follow. They pass Gaius, who’s mercifully snoring, and make their way quietly up to Arthur’s chambers, bare feet stealing soundlessly against the cold floor. Arthur sucks in a breath when Merlin reaches forward and slides his fingers between Arthur’s, and he can’t help thinking that if anyone saw them, they would no doubt look like a couple.

They make it unnoticed back to Arthur’s room, and the guard says nothing when they pass him with their hands still linked. Arthur can’t find it in himself to care.

“Do you want to sleep on the floor again?” Arthur asks as soon as Merlin has shut the door behind him.

“We can try the bed again. It won’t kill me.” He gives Arthur an ironic smile and unties the scarf around his neck, and with a spasm of panic, Arthur remembers the one he still has hidden under his pillow.

“Er—you can borrow something again, if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” He’s edging towards the bed as soon as Merlin turns to the dresser and digs his hand wildly under the pillow as Merlin undresses, and tears the scarf away and throws it under his bed as fast as he can just as Merlin turns around.

“Okay,” Arthur says briskly, not giving him a chance to speak. “Bed?”

Merlin yawns. “Yeah.” Merlin climbs into bed and Arthur does the same. The bed creaks mournfully as they settle in and Arthur lies on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Beside him, Merlin does the same. The silence spirals horribly between them, but Arthur’s slender thread of patience is unraveled before he can help himself.

“Come here,” he whispers, and even that seems too brash, too clumsy in the dark. But Merlin comes willingly and without complaint, almost like he was waiting for him, and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when he does.

They fit together easily, as humans are meant to do. Merlin’s head on his sternum, fingers slotting together, legs tangling and warm skin brushing. Their breathing becomes an easy rhythm and Merlin’s icy feet on his own make Arthur jump, which in turn makes Merlin snicker.

“How can your feet possibly be cold,” Arthur mumbles. “You run so warm. I feel like I’m lying next to a fire.”

Merlin makes a small gesture that Arthur recognizes as a shrug. “I’m strange that way.”

“You’re strange in a lot of ways. I would’ve thought your ears would be fighting for the first slot.”

“You don’t think me strange,” Merlin says, curiously sure of himself.

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I’m here. Because you came to me in the middle of the night to apologize and tell me you couldn’t sleep. Because you got angry when Gwaine kissed me.”

Arthur swallows so loudly he’s sure Merlin can hear it. “I told you I was sorry. I overreacted.”

“I know.” Merlin burrows deeper into his chest and sighs when Arthur tightens his hold on his waist. “I hope you sleep well.”

“I will,” Arthur breathes, and dares to press a kiss to Merlin’s hair before closing his eyes. “I know I will.”

It’s not morning light, or Merlin moving to the floor, or an unexpected visitor coming to knock at the door that wakes Arthur next. Instead a blood-curdling shriek erupts into his dreams, shattering his comfortable sleep like thinly blown glass in the dead of winter.

Arthur wakes with his own shout, hand already groping for the sword he keeps by the bedside and bolting upright, only to realize that none of it is necessary. Merlin is still lying next to him, but perspiration glues his hair to his forehead and his chest is rising and falling like he’s just run a race. His eyes are squeezed shut as though he’s in immense pain, and his legs are hopelessly twisted in the sheets, which are damp with his sweat.

Arthur is almost too horrorstruck to move. It takes another whimper from Merlin to break the trance, and Arthur takes him by the shoulders and shakes him, hard. Merlin is limp in his grasp, his head lolls from side to side and he doesn’t wake, which only frightens Arthur all the more. Merlin is a light sleeper. A single movement, a shift in the wrong direction should be enough to rouse him.

“Merlin!” Arthur says loudly. “Merlin, you’re dreaming!” He gives him another hard shake, and when that does nothing, Arthur scrambles out of bed, finds a pitcher of water, and throws it on him.

He wakes with a sputtering gasp, choking and coughing and his eyes streaming, and Arthur is so relieved his knees nearly give out under him. “Thank the gods,” he gets out, and collapses back into bed. Merlin is trembling violently, whether from fear or cold Arthur can’t tell, so he pulls Merlin closer and curls him in his lap like a child. He strokes his hair back from his face and presses his lips to Merlin’s temple, but there’s no reaction, only his shaky breath and the dull pain from him digging his cold fingers into Arthur’s skin. He’s grateful for it this time.

“You’re fine,” Arthur murmurs. “Nothing’s wrong, you’re right here with me. You were dreaming. Nothing’s wrong.”

Eventually Merlin’s breathing slows and the tremors lessen, and soon he’s just an exhausted—albeit soaked—bundle of flesh and bone and wet clothes lying in Arthur’s arms.

“That’s better,” Arthur whispers. “You’re okay now.”

Merlin gives a jerky nod. “I know. Just a dream.”

“Just a dream,” Arthur says. “Wasn’t real. This is real. You’re perfectly safe.”

“I know,” Merlin says again, and Arthur doesn’t dare ask him what he dreamt of.

“I didn’t know you had nightmares like that,” he says instead. “I thought I knew everything about you.”

“Just sometimes. I don’t know why.” His eyes dart from side to side and there’s clearly something he’s not saying, but Arthur doesn’t want to push him. He kisses Merlin’s shoulder instead. It’s automatic and comfortable, and a transient thought in his head questions why it’s so easy.

“Do you think you can stand up?”

“Do you want me to leave?” Merlin asks.

“No, I just want to dry you off.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, and some of the rigidity goes out of his shoulders. “Okay.”

“Come on.”

Merlin plainly doesn’t want to move very far, so Arthur takes him out of the sodden bed and sits him on the chair by the desk. “Just—sit there. I’ll get you a towel and some dry clothes.”

“That’s supposed to be my job,” Merlin says, but he can’t quite pull it off, and Arthur can’t make himself answer. Instead he drops the towel and the clothes on the floor by the desk.

“Arms up,” he says quietly, and although Merlin’s eyes lock on his, he doesn’t protest. His gaze doesn’t move as Arthur peels his shirt off, and then drops to his knees and begins to untie Merlin’s trousers.

“Er—Arthur—”

“You can’t stay in wet clothes, and we’ll sleep by the fire. I’ll give you some of mine.” Arthur says. The trousers pool at Merlin’s feet and Arthur very nearly shivers at the sight of so much bare skin. He hands Merlin the towel and turns away as he dries off, and then hears the rustle of clothing as he dresses again.

“Good?” Arthur asks.

Merlin manages a laugh. “You’ve seen me naked before, Arthur, I’m not particularly worried. But yeah, I’m dressed.”

Arthur turns back around, and his eyes meet Merlin’s again. “You really do need to shave,” he says softly, unable to take his eyes off of him.

“And you really need a haircut,” Merlin breathes.

“Yeah,” Arthur says fuzzily, and has to surreptitiously pinch his leg to remind himself that Merlin just had a nightmare, that they’re both tired, and it’s the middle of the night. Now is not the time. “We should sleep,” he forces himself to say instead.

Merlin nods. “Everything’s wet, though.”

“I’m just going to take out the spare blankets and we can sleep on the floor.”

Merlin just closes his eyes, and when he does, the hollows of his cheeks and under his eyes become more pronounced, and for a moment, he looks ill. Something twists inside Arthur, and he turns away.

He has a haphazard setup in front of the dimly glowing embers that used to be a fire in a few moments, and he slides his hand into Merlin’s and tugs him over. It’s just as uncomfortable as before, but Merlin is malleable and exhausted and yields to Arthur, and for some unfathomable reason, it’s fascinating. He can’t recall ever having seen Merlin quite like this before. He’s seen Merlin argumentative and stubborn, seen him relaxed, nervous and jumpy, injured and trying to brush it off…but never like this, never pliable and trying to stitch himself back together with the help of another. He’d simply not thought of Merlin as a person who had real problems of his own, problems that extended beyond the stain on Arthur’s shirt or whether he’s on time for a banquet, and hot tendrils of guilt coil inside of him.

“You’re okay, right?” Arthur asks.

Merlin nods, already curling up into himself. “Thank you,” he says, so quiet Arthur’s not sure he heard it.

Something sticks in his throat when he tries to answer. This crude kindness, a pile of blankets in front of a nonexistent fire somehow isn’t enough anymore. Instead of saying something foolish, instead he just lies down next to Merlin, slides his arms around his waist and buries his head in the crook between his shoulder and his neck, and hopes that’s enough.

Morning comes reluctantly. The sun is sluggish and faded when it peeks above the horizon, the clouds are heavy, and sleep cleaves to Arthur like a second skin.

“Mm…morning,” Arthur mumbles. There’s no response. He slips his fingers under Merlin’s shift, tracing smooth, hot skin with the tips of his fingers. “Merlin…time to get up. Stuff to do. Places to go. Come on.”

“Too tired,” Merlin moans. “Stay with me.”

“I’d love to,” Arthur says drolly. “Come on. Up.”

Merlin wriggles around until he’s facing Arthur from an inch away. His eyes are still closed. “Let me sleep.”

Arthur sighs and flops onto his back. “Why is it suddenly my job to wake my own servant?”

“Since you invited said servant into your bed, and then poured cold water all over his face in the middle of the night.”

“You were screaming!” Arthur protests, outraged. “I was shocked the guards didn’t burst in and demand to know why you were trying to kill me.”

“Mm…whatever. You like me anyway,” Merlin says, stretching, and the casual words that spill so easily from his mouth send a sharp pang through Arthur’s chest. He clears his throat and stands up.

“Up, Merlin.” He clasps Merlin’s arm and pulls him up.

“I assume you want a bath? You don’t have a crazy schedule today, but the hair that you won’t let me cut is even more of a mess than usual, and—”

“Do you always get nightmares?” Arthur asks abruptly.

Merlin falters. “Do I—what?”

“We’ve slept within earshot for months at a time when we’re out on some sort of quest, and I’ve never once heard you scream the way you did last night. Even when you’re injured, when that arrow caught you in the chest you were silent, or the slice in your leg that almost went to the bone, you’ve never made a sound like that. It…scared me.”

Merlin is staring out the window, but there’s a frightening blankness in his eyes. “Some things are more difficult to forget than others,” he says, and there’s magnitude in his words that makes Arthur wonder if he really knows who Merlin is at all.

“Do you want to tell me?” Arthur asks.

Merlin turns around, and there’s more guileless emotion behind his eyes than Arthur has seen in a long time. “Sometimes,” he says almost desperately, “sometimes I find myself wondering if it’s all worth it. If everything really will be okay in the end.”

The sight that he saw last night can’t seem to leave his mind. “Merlin,” Arthur says slowly, “does this have anything to do with the—the frankly alarming amount of scars you’ve collected over the years?”

Merlin bites his lip, and seems to make up his mind about something. “Never mind. Do you want to get dressed?” He tries to move towards the dresser, but Arthur catches him by the arm.

“Merlin. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

His grip is just a little too tight for Merlin to slip out of, but he still doesn’t look Arthur in the eye and there’s a strange contortion to his mouth when he says, “Yes, of course.”

Arthur lets him go, and is left wondering who exactly shared his bed last night.

He walks down to the training pitch after breakfast. It’s much the same as usual, except for the furtive glances he steals at Merlin every other minute, looking around so often that Lancelot asks if he’s got a pain in his neck and if they should go to Gaius after they’re finished.

The drills go marginally better. No one cuts off an appendage and they almost look like they know what they’re doing, but it’s still not nearly up to the standard, and Arthur takes more of a hands on approach against his better judgment.

“You,” Arthur says brusquely, motioning towards a young man who looks as though his chainmail outweighs him. “Come forward.”

He shuffles nervously forward, sword swinging from his slack hand, and stands in front of Arthur like a stag faced with a wolf.

“Okay,” Arthur says. “I’m going to demonstrate some simple blocking movements. When you’re in the thick of it, you don’t have the opportunity to jump back, duck, or jump up. Do any of those things, and chances are you’ll be missing a few key parts of anatomy. A leg if you’re lucky. A head if you’re not.”

There’s some muttering at this, some shifting feet, and a very audible snort from Merlin. Arthur has to check himself in order to keep from turning and chastising him.

He begins with some slow parries, but even that is taxing the young man in front of him. Elyan steps forward but Arthur waves him back, intent on showing a proper move to at least one man, if not the rest of them.

“Okay,” Arthur says, beginning to pant from the strain of the ceaseless footwork as they get into a rhythm. “Okay, good. Lean forward—good—now back—a little farther—perfect. What’s your name?”

“Lional, Sire,” the boy says, striving to keep his stance steady as the blade trembles in his hand.

“Good, Lional,” Arthur says, and is opening his mouth to give another tip when Lional stumbles forward instead of backwards. There’s a flash of steel, a panicked shout, and then bright pain blooms along Arthur’s side.

He cries out, clapping a hand to his ribs. Lional’s face is drained of all colour, but he can hardly spare a thought for him. Somehow, Merlin is already there, having darted ahead of the crowd that’s beginning to gather around them, and he’s got a hand on Arthur’s chest, speaking in the low, soothing tenor that Arthur himself uses when trying to lure young prey.

“It’s okay, Arthur. Let me see. Come on, give me your hand.”

Arthur curses but, little by little, lifts his hand from his side. As soon as he does, blood begins to run down his body in a tranquil red stream, and his head spins at the sight. He’s more than used to the sight of blood, even his own, but an unexpected injury still makes him feel sick.

“It’s not that bad,” Merlin says. He’s still holding Arthur’s hand, smearing his own arm with red. “Let’s go to Gaius.”

“Do we have to?” Arthur asks, grinding his teeth against the pain. “Can’t you take care of it?”

“No,” Merlin says firmly. “I can’t suture nearly as well as Gaius can, and—”

 _“Suture?”_ Arthur repeats, horrorstruck. “What do you mean, suture?”

“You’ll need sutures.” By this time Merlin is already shuffling Arthur towards the castle.

“It really doesn’t hurt that bad,” Arthur insists, as Merlin kicks the door open. “If you just bandage it—”

“You’re a terrible liar, Arthur,” Merlin snaps, and drags him inside. They begin the climb to Gaius’s quarters, and now Arthur is leaving bloody boot prints on the steps. One leg of his trousers is sopping with blood, Merlin’s hand is like steel on his arm, and a hazy thought drifts across his mind, giving him an amiable reminder that he’s probably going to vomit if he doesn’t sit down soon.

The door should be locked, and Arthur could’ve sworn Merlin had pushed on the door before he mutters something, his back to Arthur, and tries again. This time the door swings open and Merlin pulls him in, sits him on the chair, and shouts for Gaius.

Gaius appears somewhere in Arthur’s line of sight, and Arthur opens his mouth to say hello, and immediately retches. Gaius steps out of the way with the agility of a much younger man.

“Might need a bucket, Merlin,” he says dryly. “And get me a—” Three small pots slam down on the table, one full of a milky substance, the other two brown and indecipherable from each other. Merlin’s looking at Gaius with wide, panicked eyes; all the calm he had reserved for Arthur seemed to have evaporated.

Before Arthur quite understands what’s happening, Merlin’s tipping his chin up. He’s muttering something Arthur can’t make sense of, but that cool, milky liquid is dripping into his mouth and there’s long fingers stroking his cheek. He gives himself over to it, and smiles drowsily up at a pair of dark blue eyes pinched with worry before everything dissolves comfortably into black.

It’s raining outside. This is the first thing Arthur notices when he wakes, and the second is how comfortable he is, despite the throbbing in his side. He shouldn’t be this comfortable. He’s sitting in Gaius’s chair, isn’t he?

His eyes peel open but the room is only a smear of colour, and he can’t make himself lift his arms. When his vision clears, he’s left staring at his own chambers. The curtains are drawn, the fire in the hearth is dim and only a few of the candles are lit, which almost makes it look like…night. Or evening, at the least.

Across the room, there’s a recognizable young man sitting slumped by the table, head bowed and arms crossed over his chest. His mouth is open and slack and Arthur grunts in an attempt to rouse some sort of attention from him. There’s no answer. Merlin’s asleep, then.

“Merlin,” Arthur croaks. He wants water, but it’s sitting on the table. Arthur diverts all his power to picking up the pillow sitting beside him, and clenches his jaw before he lifts his arm and throws it as hard as he can without injuring himself. It hits Merlin with a soft _whump_ , and Merlin snorts and jerks his head up, blinking sleepily until his gaze fastens on Arthur. His expression brightens almost to an alarming degree.

“You’re awake!” he exclaims, and hurries to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah,” Arthur says with some effort, propping himself up on his elbows. “What time is it? Wasn’t it just early morning?”

To his surprise—and intense liking—Merlin blushes. “Yeah. I gave you a little too much of the stuff that’s meant to put you to sleep. I was only supposed to give you a drop or two, but I got a little carried away, and—er—well, now it’s midnight.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Midnight. You knocked me out for over twelve hours, is what I’m hearing. Because you...what? Spilled?”

“I was worried!” Merlin protests, but it’s no good, he’s even redder now. “How do you feel?” he adds, in a miserable attempt to change the subject.

“Fine,” Arthur grumbles. “Probably would be better if I hadn’t slept away an entire day, thanks to you.”

“I’m _sorry_. You were throwing up and I thought you were going to pass out. It was a shallow slice to your chest—I _told_ you to wear chainmail, but oh no, you were just going out there to teach and observe, not to participate—and there was a lot of blood, but you’re fine now. You’ll heal in a little while, as long as you stay put. Leon and Elyan are going to teach the knights while you recuperate.”

“And Gwaine?” Arthur asks rather nastily. “Isn’t he going to help?”

Merlin’s lips thin into a rigid white line. “You can’t possibly still be upset about that.”

“Fine, no, I’m not. I was just wondering.”

“No, he’s not. He’s not going to help.” Merlin draws in a deep, almost shuddery breath, and Arthur frowns at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says, sounding slightly constricted.

“Yeah there is. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Merlin, come on,” Arthur cajoles, an easy smile beginning to twitch at the corners of his mouth. This is familiar territory. “Out with it. You know I’m going to get it out of you eventually.”

“All right, fine!” Merlin shouts at the top of his lungs, so abrupt and so disconcerting that Arthur nearly flinches, and shock flashes across his face before he can control his expression. Merlin gets up and begins to pace. “You want to know what I have nightmares about? That. What happened this morning. That’s exactly what I have nightmares about. One day something’s going to happen and I’m not going to be there, and it’ll be the end of you. I’m not burying you, Arthur, do you understand me? I’m not doing it.”

“Merlin!” Arthur says forcefully. “Sit down.”

“No!” Merlin yells, loud and vehement. “I dream about it, I worry about it, I can’t—it’s not going to go away! You’re king regent of a powerful kingdom, and even when you were a prince there was a new assassination plot every day. It’s only going to get harder. Your enemies are clever, they want what you have, and if the thing that takes you out is an untrained idiot who forgot to use a sparring blade, I—”

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts, trying to pacify him. “Please relax, you’re freaking me out. You know I’m okay, right? I’m not going to die. The worst I’m going to get is a new scar.”

Merlin pauses, chest heaving with the struggle to control himself. “This time,” he says, articulating carefully. “This time it’s just a scar. I don’t know about next time.”

“Come here,” Arthur says patiently. “Please.”

He’s not sure if he’s imagining it or if Merlin’s bottom lip really does tremble before he comes closer and sits on the end of the bed, but either way, he doesn’t say anything.

“You know I’m careful. I know what I’m doing with a sword, and—”

Merlin actually hisses in frustration. “Of course I know that, but that doesn’t prevent someone from sneaking into your chambers at night, or—or anything! Anything could happen to you.”

“Listen to me, all right? As of right now, I’m perfectly fine. Breathing, heart beating, all of it. Stop thinking about it, you girl’s petticoat.”

“It’s my job to keep you safe—”

“It’s your job to dress me.”

“Shut up. It’s my job to keep you safe. Please don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

Arthur stares at him for a moment, evaluating the gain of a joke versus a serious answer. Merlin’s nervous, careworn face is enough to tell him, and he sighs. “Fine. I’ll be more careful.”

“Okay,” Merlin says, and there’s tangible relief in his face. “Good. You should…you should probably sleep.”

“I just woke up.”

“Injuries take a lot out of you when you’re thick.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Fine,” he says, and hesitates for a fraction of a second before saying, “Will you stay with me again tonight?”

There’s a pause before Merlin grimaces. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?” Arthur says, feeling—ridiculously—rejected.

“I’m not careful when I’m asleep, I’m very…”

“Touchy,” Arthur inserts.

Merlin scowls. “Sure. Whatever. I don’t want to roll over and injure you even further.”

“I don’t care,” Arthur says. “I want you here. I’m king regent of Camelot, I get what I want.”

“Not when it comes to me,” Merlin shoots back.

“Yes when it comes to you! You’re my servant, you’re under my jurisdiction more than anybody.”

“Oh, so you’re just going to order me to sleep in the same bed as you?” Merlin says, and crosses his arms. “Is that how this works now?”

“Are you saying you don’t want to?” Arthur asks keenly, watching Merlin’s expression.

Merlin falters, and it’s enough. “I—that’s not—it’s just not good for your injury…it’s all—it’s all bandaged. I don’t want to wreck it.”

“Yes or no? Do you want to sleep in this bed tonight?”

“All right fine, yes, but—”

“AHA!” Arthur says triumphantly. “Good. Blow out the candles and get in.”

Merlin gives him a half-exasperated, half-fond look before a smile begins to play around his lips. “Okay,” he says, and in that simple word, his voice is filled with the kind of vulnerable, exposed emotion that scrapes against Arthur’s ears, making him want to look away and pretend he didn’t hear it.

The next few days are the strangest in Arthur’s time as king regent. The problems that cannot be diverted or postponed come to him, and he’s forced to hear summaries of council sessions from his bed. He goes to the window and watches the knights train from there, bouncing his leg and tapping the table until he can’t take watching anymore and has to pace around the room to keep from shattering the aforementioned window. Gaius pays a visit in the mornings to redress the wound and check for infection, and all the while, Merlin is there.

He’s there during every meal, watching with clear eyes and a frown he doesn’t seem to be aware of when Arthur wrinkles his nose at the food. He stands beside the bed when Gaius comes, interrupting to ask questions Arthur doesn’t understand and screwing up his face in sympathy when Arthur bites his lip from the pain. The only time he seems to spend away is when Gaius drags him out, insisting on his doing one task or another. Arthur tries too, telling him chores must be done and this isn’t nearly as bad as all the other times he’s had an injury, but it’s futile. Merlin merely fixes him with a narrow gaze and says nothing, waiting until Arthur stops talking and then continuing with his work as if nothing has happened.

And, strangest of all, Merlin is there at night as well. Arthur doesn’t have to ask anymore, and he wonders if Merlin would leave even if he did ask. But the thought of sending him away makes him feel like a cold hand has clenched around his heart, and so he says nothing each night as Merlin dresses in an old shift and climbs into bed, settling gingerly into the blankets and pillows he’s meant to clean and mend. He still talks in his sleep, his hair tickles Arthur’s chin and his feet are cold and sometimes he even drools, but for some unfathomable reason, Arthur can’t bring himself to mind any of it.

The awareness comes slowly, if it comes at all. How well he knows the creases in Merlin’s palm, the tiny, concentrated bursts of delight when he laughs, the warmth simmering at the base of Arthur’s spine when their hands brush. Somehow Merlin is no longer just the chatty servant that brings him a semblance of comfort. Instead there’s a gentle, kind man with insight and gravity lying next to him at night, and instead of being an extension of Arthur, Merlin has now somehow acquired his own life and problems. The more time Arthur spends in bed, the less he can ignore that Merlin’s eyes are so blue they’re almost violet, the oddly hypnotic quality his mouth has to it, and that the tiny furrow between his brows when he concentrates makes Arthur want to smooth it away. As most bad ideas do, this one takes root in a murky corner of Arthur’s mind and begins to grow, fed and watered by the constant little touches, the brilliant smiles, and everything else. Everything that Merlin is feeds into what Arthur wants to do long before he realizes he wants to do it.

On an afternoon where Arthur’s patience and self-control is at its thinnest it’s ever been, Merlin comes in to redress his wound.

“Why isn’t Gaius doing this?” Arthur asks, trying to disguise his dismay and gritting his teeth as Merlin pulls his shirt up and over his head.

“One of the noblewomen is in the middle of a birth,” Merlin answers distractedly, running gentle fingers over the bloodstained bandage. He frowns. “The gauze shouldn’t still be soaking up this much blood. It must have chafed loose over the past day or so, because I just checked it yesterday.”

Arthur barely withholds a shudder. “I know you did.”

“Don’t move so much,” Merlin chides. “The last of Gaius’s silk thread is taking up residence in your chest. Do you know how expensive that is? I’d rather not have to explain that you had to sneeze at the exact moment I was redoing your bandaging.”

“All right, all right,” Arthur says. “Just get on with it.”

“Of course, Sire,” Merlin says in an abrupt turn away from their usual camaraderie, and this is so out of character that Arthur twists around to stare at him.

“‘Sire’?” Arthur says incredulously. “You haven’t called me that for ages, not since you started spending nights here.”

Merlin takes a deep breath, and his gaze casts down to the floor when he speaks. “About that…we do have to speak about something. I…I don’t think our arrangement should continue.”

Arthur’s brows draw together. “What does that mean?”

“I think I should go back to sleeping in my own room,” Merlin says precisely, as though he’s rehearsed this.

“Why?” Arthur says, his voice beginning to climb. “Has someone said something?”

“No, no one knows,” Merlin says. “But someone will soon. The guards that know I don’t leave your room every night…they will be bound to break their silence at one time or another, Sire. And when they do, you will have great trouble securing a marriage alliance if word gets around that you sleep in the same bed as a servant.”

“I—we don’t do anything,” Arthur says stubbornly, ignoring the persistent voice at the back of his head that says, _yes, I very much would like to change that, please_.

Merlin bites his lip. “There’s no way to prove that. You’re king regent. If Uther doesn’t—doesn’t heal, you will be king. You will need an alliance. And you will not get one if I’m in the way.”

“Merlin, all of this—all of it is ridiculous,” Arthur says wildly, the panic in him rising to a magnificent degree. “You’re simply here for comfort, for ease of duty, there—there’s nothing wrong in it.”

“I know that,” Merlin says in a placating tone. “But no one else does. It’s better to stop now before rumors really begin to fly.”

“They aren’t _going_ to fly, not if—”

“They will,” Merlin says earnestly, and Arthur hates how calm he looks more than anything, how easy it is for him to give this up. “The gossip will start, and once it does, it will be impossible to put out. There will be nothing to do, and saying anything to deny it will be like throwing oil onto the flames. They will take it as confirmation, Sire.”

Arthur shakes his head like a vaguely annoying insect is buzzing around his ear. “Stop calling me that.”

Merlin stares at him. “Your title?”

“Yes! It’s—irritating.”

Merlin gives a slight mock bow. “My apologies, my lord.”

“Quit it,” Arthur orders.

“Your Majesty.”

“Appalling.”

“Your Grace.”

“Dreadful.”

“Your Highness?”

“Worse.”

Merlin throws his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Then what?”

“My name, if you could possibly manage such a complicated feat,” Arthur says acridly.

“What?” Merlin says, looking at him like he’s grown an extra limb in the last few seconds. “You want me to call you by your first name all the time?”

“In present company, yes, but I—that’s not what matters. That’s not what I was getting around to. One more night, Merlin, okay?” Arthur asks, aware that he sounds desperate and unable to help it. “One more night, and then you can go, and I’ll stop asking. Okay?”

Merlin hesitates. “I guess…one more night can’t hurt.”

Arthur exhales with far more relief than he should strictly be feeling. “Thanks. Okay.”

“But after tonight, we stop,” Merlin reminds him. “I’m not going to get into the way of politics. I sit in on council meetings, I know how bad it can get.”

“Fine, fine, I understand,” Arthur says, still feeling elated at the small promise he’s gained. “After this, we stop.”

Night arrives rather slower than Arthur would have preferred, as though the moon is patiently stitching stars into the silk-black night and prefers not to reveal herself until it’s deemed perfect. When her embroidery finally does begin to shine after dusk, Arthur’s dinner is lying cooling and abandoned on his plate, and Merlin clucks at the sight of it.

“How many times before you listen to me about your eating habits?’ Merlin says, but there’s affection filtering in through his reprimanding tone. “You have access to the best made food, the best cuts of meat, the ripest fruit. Take advantage of it. Or I will.”

“I keep saying you’re welcome to,” Arthur says.

“I know, I eat most of it on the way down to the kitchens,” Merlin says mildly, and grins when Arthur gives him an exaggerated look of betrayal.

“I told you that you could eat with me.”

“My table manners are almost worse than yours.”

“Still king regent,” Arthur retorts. “Still have the ability to knock most of your teeth out and turn them into a necklace.”

“You’re no good at arts and crafts. Fat, clumsy fingers will do that to you,” Merlin mocks, and Arthur gives a valiant attempt to keep a straight face and immediately fails. Merlin snickers. “Do you want wine?”

“Not tonight.” Arthur wants to remember. He doesn’t want the haziness of drink smoothing away his memory of the glints in Merlin’s hair, the winsome smile on his mouth, the comfortable air he’s exhibiting, like he’ll share a bed with Arthur for the rest of his life.

The errant thought floats innocently through his head, a string of letters he doesn’t truly become aware of until the thought is fully formed and standing naked in his mind. _Sharing a bed for the rest of his life._

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat as the picture assembles itself in his mind’s eye. Merlin lying beside him night after night, his clothes brushing against Arthur’s in the wardrobe, his boots sitting on the floor next to his side of the bed…and then Arthur’s imagination goes even further and now Merlin has a silver diadem set with shimmering stones nestled in his dark hair, he’s plucking at the crisp linen shirt he’s wearing and looking ruefully up at Arthur…a pint-sized little girl comes running into the room and Merlin picks her up and swings her around, laughing, before setting her back on the floor, where she giggles and asks for more, her face shining with glee…

“…Arthur?” Merlin says, and Arthur is yanked abruptly back to the present.

“Er—sorry, what?” Arthur says, hoping he doesn’t look as flushed as he feels. The images are still reeling around his brain, impossible to get rid of now that he’s thought of them, and there’s a deep, pulling want he’s never felt before tugging somewhere around where his navel is. “What did you say?”

“I just wanted to know if you were tired,” Merlin says blankly. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says hastily. “My mind just wandered for a moment.”

“I must be extraordinarily uninteresting,” Merlin says, reaching forward to steal a purple-skinned grape off of his plate. Arthur knows he doesn’t like the green ones for some odd reason, and so always eats those himself. Merlin pops it in his mouth.

“On the contrary,” Arthur says, gazing ahead. “Rather more than I thought.”

“Right,” Merlin says, looking queerly back at him. “Whatever you say.”

“I don’t want to go to bed yet.”

Merlin shrugs. “That’s fine. I’m not in any hurry.” His eyes are shining brighter than they usually are and his foot is tapping against the floor. His smile is lopsided and when Arthur frowns, studying him, blood rises to Merlin’s cheeks.

“You’ve been drinking!” Arthur accuses.

“No!” Merlin contradicts as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “I never!”

“Liar. That’s why you asked if I wanted wine. So I wouldn’t notice you’d been drinking on the job.”

“All right, fine,” Merlin says, sitting back in his chair. “Can’t hide any secrets from you.”

“You’re an open book.”

“Indeed I am.”

“How much did you have?”

“Not much…just a glass.”

“Just a glass and you’re already sloppy and restless? Do you have any tolerance? Surely Gwaine must have taught you better than that.”

“ _Gwaine_ ,” Merlin says, mimicking Arthur’s precise enunciation, “has nothing to do with whether or not I drink. It’s entirely my decision, and I was offered some in the kitchens, so I took it. My apologies if it ruins your night, my lord.”

“You’ve always said that weirdly,” Arthur realizes, his forehead crinkling. “My lord instead of m’lord. Someone taught you well.”

“I am a true gem among men,” Merlin announces, and Arthur bursts into laughter.

Arthur is not drunk, he has not had a drop of anything for days, but somehow he doesn’t feel sober when he sits in front of the hearth next to Merlin. His body is relaxing and words slip out of his mouth before he realizes he’s said anything, and although his worries are not gone, they exist somewhere vaguely in the back of his head. Instead his mind whirls with countless possibilities, and every picture he paints in his mind is richer and more plausible than the last. He finds himself thinking about the weeks ahead, how to get closer, how to be alone more often, how to tell Merlin how he feels…he finds himself, in fact, subconsciously planning a courtship.

This idea, once he reaches it, doesn’t alarm or even surprise him. It seems to make sense, like they were always on this path and Arthur is just beginning to see that they were not just aimlessly wandering, but always had a direction, however long it took them to veer towards it.

Merlin gets up, steps away, and sits back down with a handful of grapes. He eats two at the same time, but he can’t restrain a smile, and a thin stream of juice runs down his chin. Impulsively, Arthur leans forward and wipes it away. Merlin stills and swallows, grapes forgotten.

“Er…sorry,” Arthur says after the silence has stretched on too long. “Habit.”

Merlin nods. “Right.”

The awkward moment passes, and the night follows after. Somewhere after Arthur loses track of time, the fire sputters and goes out for good, and he’s left staring at dimly smoldering embers and sparks that extinguish themselves before they can dance. Merlin is half asleep on his shoulder with bare branches stripped of fruit lying in his slack hand. Arthur fishes it out of his palm and tosses it into the hearth, where a tiny flame licks greedily at it and then dies once more.

“I think we should sleep,” Arthur says, stifling a yawn. “I’m exhausted.”

“Mm…yeah,” Merlin says, his words sliding into each other. “Tired.”

“Tired,” Arthur agrees. He moves to get up and Merlin shifts away, rubbing at his eyes. He looks so young, Arthur thinks, his body full of a bubbling emotion that can only be described as awe. He can’t help but picture what Merlin will look like when he’s older, when silver begins to thread through his wild black hair, when his eyes are full of wisdom instead of youth’s fire, when his reflexes are a little slower and cautious words come out of his mouth instead of impulsive ones.

I want to be there to see that, Arthur thinks, and is almost overwhelmed by the upsurge of longing that follows the thought.

He only has one more night. Not even that, but a bare few hours of comfort and ease and friendship before they become master and servant again, before they have to build a wall they’ve broken down too many times to have any real significance when it’s up again.

“You’re doing well, you know,” Merlin says, watching him. Arthur starts.

“What?”

“You’re doing well,” Merlin repeats. “I can see you worrying. Stop. I can’t say it will always be easy, but you’re guided by your conscience and your morality, and that leads you the right way. You’ll be a great king. I know you didn’t expect this to be so sudden, which is why you think you’re floundering, but your decisions are well thought out, you make time for those who want it, and you care for those who need it. You’re steady with your rule, which is more than can be said for a lot of monarchs.”

“Oh,” Arthur says dumbly. The praise seems like too much, like he doesn’t deserve it, and it’s uncomfortable to acknowledge. “Thank you.”

“Good,” Merlin says, stretching until his joints crack, and just like that the pressure in the atmosphere drains away. “Bed now?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, standing up. Merlin takes off his boots and places them neatly by the corner of the bed, and Arthur gets a pang thinking about them sitting there, wondering if he’ll ever be allowed to see them there again.

“Come on, then,” Merlin says, throwing the covers back and scrambling into the bed. “Get in.”

Arthur does as he’s told and slides underneath the blankets, under the sheets, until Merlin’s tangible heat is embracing him. The last candle is snuffed out and they lie together in darkness, comfortable and warm and for once, content.

The revelations of the night before are still fresh and prickling in his mind when Arthur gets up the next morning. Merlin is already gone, the place where his boots were is empty and the lopsided stack of his clothes is missing from the chair he put them on. Presumably he’s left to get breakfast. The curtains at the windows are thrown wide and the right side of the bed, where Merlin slept, is neatly made up. Everything looks to be in its place, but Arthur looks at the gleaming floor where boots sat by the foot of the bed, the shadowy memory of Merlin swinging a little girl rises to the front of his mind again, he sees a crown caught in dark curls, and Arthur’s heart catches in his throat. The want he felt is no longer just want; something crackles in the tips of his fingers and up his spine. He nearly confuses it for anger. It’s a moment before he realizes the blaze in his stomach is not being stoked by rage or fury or want, but desperation. A profound, tearing need for something he will never have again, and like water slipping through fingers, it’s vanished.

He’s deep in thoughts akin to this when the door creaks open and Merlin pokes his head in.

“Breakfast,” he says, and the single word is enough to tell Arthur that the walls are up again, that whatever had fallen away between them has erected as solidly and immovably as before. They’re both silent until he sets the tray down, and Arthur tries to eat purely for Merlin’s benefit. It’s too quiet, he misses Merlin’s constant prattling and he speaks impulsively, the only thing he can think to say.

“Merlin, will you give me a haircut?”

Merlin pauses, and there’s a hint of skepticism in his tone when he speaks. “What, really?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, fighting to keep the heaviness out of the words. Already he regrets this. “You were right. I’m king regent, I should look the part. My father may never come back. I shouldn’t be walking around looking like—like I’m still a prince unwilling to take on accountability.”

“That was not at all my point,” Merlin says flatly. “But I’ll give you a haircut if you’d like me to.”

“Thank you. Now, if you’ve got the time.”

“Of course, Sire,” Merlin says, and this time, Arthur doesn’t comment on the return of his title.

He sits down at his desk as Merlin takes a tray still full of food away, pulls a piece of parchment close to him, and stares at it. It dazzles white against the dark wood of the table, and his eyes slowly begin to water as he stares at it. He could write the speech he has to give next week. He could write details for the banquet he’s supposed to be throwing in a month. He could write anything at all, and it would be an improvement on sitting there daydreaming.

Arthur isn’t sure how long it is before Merlin returns, but when he does, he has a pair of shears and a bucket of lukewarm water in one hand, and a small tub in the other. He sets these down and collects Arthur’s comb, pulls a chair out to the middle of the room, and gestures for Arthur to sit down. He does it unwillingly, remorse for his hair already tugging at him.

“Tilt your head back,” Merlin says softly, standing behind him, and when Arthur doesn’t immediately comply, warm fingertips press at the tip of his chin with delicate pressure.

The comb detangling his hair is extraordinarily gentle, and it’s so quiet he can hear the strands of hair threading through the wooden teeth.

“How are you feeling?” Merlin asks in a voice empty of inflection.

There’s only a slight ache in his chest. Arthur has a feeling it will stay for a long time to come, but even this is nothing compared to the trouble his shoulder sometimes gives him, and so he says, “Better. Much better.”

“That’s good.” He says nothing else, and Arthur contemplates agitatedly that Merlin has never been so reticent. He always has a stream of bright, heartening chatter, lulling Arthur into a sense of security, but today he doesn’t seem to be able to work up more than a few words at a time.

“I’m thinking of going hunting,” Arthur blurts out in a desperate attempt to coax something out of him.

“Should I prepare the horses, Sire?”

“Wh—no. That’s not what I meant. It was—I guess it was just a thought,” he says awkwardly, caught in his small lie.

Merlin remains silent, and after Arthur’s hair is thoroughly combed through, Merlin begins to separate it. It might have soothed him if Arthur hadn’t been rummaging through his brain, looking for a way to make Merlin talk, and the slight tugs on his head cause him no pain, but he’s already impatient to get out of the chair.

“I’m going to wet your hair now,” Merlin says, and the words, simple as they are, draw up an old recollection. Arthur finds himself stifling a snort at the memory of the first time Merlin had tried to give him a haircut.

“Something funny, Your Majesty?”

“Do you remember when you first began to cut my hair?” Arthur says, grinning reminiscently.

The hands on his head pause. “Didn’t I…”

“Pour boiling water over my face? Yes. I was red for hours. Father thought I’d been with a chambermaid and turned the most outrageous shade of purple I’ve ever seen.”

Merlin laughs, and Arthur triumphantly takes it as a victory. “I suppose I wasn’t the best servant in those days.”

“Years ago now. I can hardly remember the passing of time. You’re the servant that’s stayed the longest with me, you know.”

“Oh?” Merlin says over the sloshing of the water in the bucket as he begins to soak Arthur’s hair. “And why’s that?”

Rivulets of water run down Arthur’s neck, and he represses a shiver. “I’m not sure. I was always so impatient with them. They were stiff and unwieldy and _constantly_ bowing, I couldn’t train them out of it no matter how I tried. Their employment usually ended with me acting out in a truly despicable way until they quit. Father wouldn’t let me fire them. He said I needed a guiding hand in my servant.”

“Is that what I am?”

“It’s certainly not what either I or my father thought of you when you first came to Camelot. It’s not always easy to reward someone who has saved a prince’s life, but you were young and foolish about the ways of court. Father saw that. He assigned you to me as a servant because he thought you would be gone in a week.”

When Merlin speaks, Arthur can hear his smile. “And instead here I am, five years later. Still stuck with you.”

“Yes. And I didn’t have to train you out of etiquette at all. You never bowed, or even gave a respectful nod. You said whatever came into your head, whenever it did, whether it was sarcastic or rude or childish—”

“Or important, or smart, or life-saving,” Merlin objects.

“Fine, that too. And Father thought you so strange. He said when he first met you, he saw a bumbling child with no regard for the way of things. But it was only a few months later—granted, he’d had rather a lot of that one liqueur…you know which one I’m talking about? It tastes stronger of apple than the rest of them. Easier to down more of it.”

Merlin laughs again. “I do seem to remember the king having a great liking for that.”

“Well, out of nowhere, he asks me about you. He said you harboured an odd loyalty towards me, stronger than that he had ever seen from a servant. He said he didn’t doubt that you would save my life again, even if it cost your own. And you have.”

Merlin’s hands still again, and the air grows heavier.

“But that’s not why I keep you around,” Arthur whispers, and he can hear Merlin swallow. His heart is beating a brutal tattoo against his ribs, but he is still quiet when he speaks, and he struggles to keep himself steady. “I keep you around because of the lines in your palms and the creases in your lips. The way you’ll only ever eat the purple grapes. The love you have for anything living.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says quietly. Arthur ignores him.

“Your terrible clothes. The wisdom that comes out of your mouth sometimes, almost like you know the meaning your words have.”

“Arthur…don’t…”

“How steady your hands are. How your skin is always too warm and yet at night, you cling to me like it’s your last night on this earth.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says hoarsely, and this time the dreadful scrape of his voice, like a blade against stone, makes Arthur stop. “Please.”

Arthur stands and turns to face him, hoping his knees don’t give out. He pays no heed to the damp hair that sticks to the back of his neck and the water soaking into the collar of his shirt. “Why?” he asks, and he can’t quite keep the primitive desperation from bleeding into his voice. He can see that Merlin hears it; his eyes widen a fraction and he looks like he’s fighting the urge to take a step back. “You know what I’m saying. You know what I want.”

“Yes, I know, but—” Merlin looks down and then looks back up again. Arthur can’t tell if his eyes are shining with want or resolve. “I _am_ a servant. I was meant to be one. I was not meant to take up in my king’s bed.”

“Last time I called you a servant, you told me you were much more than that,” Arthur remembers. It had been a day like any other, Merlin was scraping at a blade with a whetstone as Arthur watched. He had made some inconsequential joke about Merlin being a servant, and he had looked back and answered, _I am much more than that._ It had given Arthur a queer feeling at the time, and it does now, even as a pallid memory.

Their eyes meet as Arthur speaks again. “All men have their own kingdoms behind their eyes. But in you, I see no plots, no schemes, no longing for wealth or power or any of the other things the men in my court fall over themselves for. Do I know you, Merlin? Tell me at least that.”

“Yes,” Merlin breathes. ‘Yes, you know me.”

“You are allowed to say no,” Arthur says in a low voice. “Whatever you give to me, I will be grateful. Whatever you withhold, I will not ask for again. You aren’t mine. I know that.”

“If I…if I give you what you ask for, there is no taking it back. And when it ends, you’ll have worn me through. I won’t be able to be your servant anymore. I won’t be able to be here anymore. And I must be here. I have to stay, Arthur. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Arthur says softly. “It’s yours to give or keep as you wish. But…I will say the dreams about you that cross my mind do not see an ending. I see you with grey threads in your hair and a coronet you are long used to wearing, and a bed we share, and a wardrobe that holds both of our clothes.”

A wretched, ghastly smile turns up the corners of Merlin’s mouth. “Dreams never see an ending. That’s why we wake from them.”

Arthur does not get his hair cut. Merlin leaves the room soon after their conversation, muttering about some errand or another he has to attend to, and doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s lying. As soon as he’s gone, Arthur sits with a groan on his bed and buries his face in his hands. How could he have asked? How could he have jeopardized such a precious thing with his foolish words?

He wonders if this is why kings rule alone. Not through choice, but through the gradual drawing away of people like blood from a wound, one by one, as they all realize what makes a king and what doesn’t.

Arthur doesn’t give himself any more time to think about it. He throws himself into work with an urgency that might frighten his men if they saw him. He writes feverishly day-by-day, monotonous orders and tedious speeches that have to be checked, work-ups of rations, possible patrol routes, and he goes so quickly that he leaves splatters of dried ink on the parchment. Someone else with clearer script must rewrite them, because they appear silently on his desk in the mornings for him to read over. He doesn’t. He can’t make himself relive what he wrote the day before.

Merlin is as taciturn as ever, and it almost reminds Arthur of the consequences of the shouting match after Gwaine kissed him, but this is no tight-lipped anger. This is soft, sad acceptance, drifting over their heads like pale clouds. Arthur doesn’t ask about Gwaine anymore, preferring not know. Merlin no longer stays any longer than he has to in the evenings, and Arthur experiences the bitterness of jealousy when he wonders if he leaves because he’s spending his nights in another’s chambers. He shoves the thought away as soon as it enters his mind, but it lurks there at the edge, waiting to insinuate doubt in the dead of night when Arthur is too weary to resist it.

As a result, he grows harsh and cold towards Merlin, barking orders where once he would have asked, throwing things where once he might have set them down, and he watches Merlin’s frustration grow. This only sets him off more. An insistent voice in the back of his head tells him that this isn’t fair, he told Merlin he would accept whatever he wanted to give, and this behavior belongs to an Arthur of many years ago.

He tries to rein in his temper, but Merlin’s retorts hold bite where they didn’t earlier, and more and more, their easy friendship turns to distant disagreements and duty.

On a day when Arthur has all but forgotten Merlin is there, intent on his letter to Mithian, he’s jerked out of his focus by an almighty crash. When he jumps, head snapping up, Merlin is standing there with a red face and lips pressed together to keep from shouting. There’s a mess of washing at his feet.

“Is this what I get?” he asks through gritted teeth. Arthur’s eyes widen. “Is this the consequence of saying no? Cruelty and distance? You told me you would accept whatever I had to give, Arthur, you did _not_ say I would be paying the price for the rest of my days!” His words ring through the room, and it has a tenor Arthur has never heard from him before. The sound of righteous anger, of someone who is demanding to be treated with the respect they deserve.

Arthur means to say this, but instead what comes out of his mouth is, “You’re free to leave my service at any time if you’re not satisfied with your treatment, Merlin.”

“You’re not getting out of it that easily,” Merlin snarls. “As someone who has access to your food, weapons, armor, clothing, and you at night, you might do well to pretend I’m a human being from time to time.”

“Pretend?” Arthur’s volume soars as his restraint fails. “I don’t have to pretend! You’re standing right there, all the time! Constantly beside me, dressing me, stoking the fire in my room, it’s impossible to ignore you! You said no, and I respect that, I do, but you started this. You’re the one who left the room, who stopped smiling and laughing and talking and everything else!” He realizes vaguely that he’s on his feet. He doesn’t remember standing up.

“Fine,” Merlin snaps. “Fine, you’re right, I didn’t know what to do with it, so I left. But you have been every manner of terrible to me.”

“And I’m sorry!” Arthur shouts. “It’s hard to control myself!”

“All I want to do is get back to normal!” Merlin yells back, looking as though there’s a great deal more he’d like to say instead. “That’s it! That’s all I want from you.”

Thorny silence stretches between them as they glower at each other, until Arthur finally bites out, “Fine.”

“Great,” Merlin shoots back. He whirls on his heel and leaves the room before Arthur can get another word out, conveniently leaving the heap of clothes behind on the floor.

“Damn him to hell,” Arthur mutters, bright anger like noon sunlight still coursing through his veins, and he sits back down to his letter.

Arthur is on nervous, livid tenterhooks for hours waiting for Merlin to come back. Mithian’s letter, kind and full of news as it is, can’t hold his attention for long and he’s still not permitted to run his kingdom from the throne room. Leon comes to report and leaves in high dudgeon after Arthur loses his temper for no reason other than his being there, and stubbornly shoves away the guilt that threatens to engulf him.

It’s evening before Merlin returns. When he does, he gives Arthur a tight smile before bending to gather the washing back into a hamper, and the quiet that normally rests so easily in the room is stiff and splinters like glass with every movement Merlin makes.

“All right,” Arthur says at last, barely keeping the urge to throw Merlin out at bay.

Merlin looks up. “My lord?”

“Eat with me tonight. You wanted things to be normal, that’s normal. Stay here and eat.”

Merlin stares at him with an appraising eye. “Are you quite sure, Sire?”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says grudgingly. “We should start getting past this. Go down and get our supper. And,” he adds, “get some of that wine my father likes.”

“Elderberry?”

“Certainly not,” Arthur says, making a face. “The medicinal stuff Gaius makes? It’s always too thin. Blackberry. Spiced plum if you can’t find it.”

Merlin nods, and a slow smile quirks his lips. “Of course.”

Arthur smiles back, and when Merlin leaves, he doesn’t feel happy, but rather solid, as though he’s taken back a piece of himself that had broken away.

The food sitting on the table looks more enticing than he can remember it being for weeks. Arthur doesn’t know if that’s because of the good mood he’s in or the fact that he hasn’t eaten properly since the responsibilities of ruling a kingdom fell on his shoulders, but no matter what it is, the skin of the chicken is glistening and makes a satisfying crackling sound when he cuts it, the bread is warm and steaming, and soft yellow cheese sits placidly next to it. A smattering of sweet, maroon-coloured raspberries roll around on the plate.

“You asked for the raspberries, didn’t you?’ Arthur asks, his mouth full.

Merlin nods. “Couldn’t help myself. They’re not going to tell the king to go easy on the fruit, now, are they?”

“Lovely, the whole of Camelot is going to think I’m overeating,” Arthur complains. “I’m not even supposed to be eating them; nobility don’t eat fresh fruit like this.”

Merlin shrugs. “It’s good. And Gaius said it’s good for you.”

“Mm…don’t trust Gaius about food. He eats insects if there’s nothing about.”

“True enough.”

They chatter throughout the meal, and though the talk is not as light-hearted as it might have been, they’re exchanging words, and a relieved part of Arthur’s mind is grateful for anything. The desperation, and then the anger hid his isolation from him and only now does he realize how singular Merlin’s friendship is. Who else would dare speak to royalty the way he does? Who would contradict his decisions, speak out against a king’s anger so fearlessly?

It could not be called courage. Courage is knowing the consequences of your actions and acting anyway. Fearlessness is thinking there are none.

“You were wrong,” Merlin says abruptly, and Arthur blinks.

“Er—what?”

“You said you saw no kingdom behind my eyes.” Merlin’s gaze is steady. “But there is. I see a different Camelot. One where you are king. Where senseless violence stops. Where kindness and surety rule the kingdom instead of weighted justice.”

Arthur stops eating and stares. “That’s quite the thing to put on my shoulders, don’t you think?”

Merlin shrugs. “That kingdom is who you are. I don’t think you’re capable of ruling any other way.”

"You think too much of me,” Arthur says, shaking his head, but there’s a buoyancy to his thoughts now, a weightlessness he tries not to feel. He has to remind himself that the loyalty Merlin has always felt has nothing to do with anything else he might think in regards to Arthur.

“I don’t,” Merlin says inflexibly. “I know who you are.”

“Last time you said that, you called me a prat.”

“I was right, then, too.”

“Maybe,” Arthur concedes. “Did you get that wine I asked for?”

“No blackberry—the cook said someone was at it, but wouldn’t say who—so it’s plum tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Ah well,” Arthur says, reaching for the goblet Merlin’s just poured. “Can’t have everything.” The cup is full of an amber liquid shot through with light, and the aroma drifting upward is dizzyingly sweet. Somehow it catches the flavour of summer; a sky as a bright as a jewel, a white sun, golden grass cracking under the languid heat.

“Arthur,” Merlin says slowly.

“Mm?”

“You said before that—that you dreamed about us.”

Arthur lowers his cup, feeling vaguely as if there’s something closing in on him. Merlin swallows before he continues. “Can I ask what you dreamed of?”

“That is…a dangerous path to follow,” Arthur says, his brows drawing together in a frown. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“I’m curious,” Merlin murmurs. His finger is tracing the lip of his own goblet.

“In case you forgot, Merlin, you refused me when I asked for more,” Arthur says, working hard to keep the ire and the bruise of rejection out of his voice. “Why now? To remind me?”

“You don’t have to say yes.”

Arthur sighs and kneads his fingertips along his forehead, hearing his own echo in Merlin’s words. “I’ll answer. But I don’t want it brought up again, do you understand?”

“Of course.”

Arthur takes another drink, and his voice cracks as he begins to speak. “I saw your boots lying by the corner of the bed every night. The room where you stayed with Gaius had someone else living in it, an apprentice who was just as fumbling and useless as you were when you began.”

“Thanks very much.”

“All of your terrible, frayed, faded shirts were hanging next to mine. Every time I opened the cupboard, there they were. I—you refused to wear anything you weren’t able to afford before. You hated it if I tried to give you anything. You still came to council sessions with me, but this time you had a seat of your own, and someone else carried the water pitcher.” Arthur’s volume drops as he keeps going, so low he can barely hear himself, but Merlin is paying rapt attention, his lips parted and glistening with wine. His eyes are fixed on Arthur’s. “You wore a crown,” Arthur whispers. “A silver crown that always got caught in your curls, and it took ages to work it out. And—and at some point, there was a child.” His voice breaks again. “A little girl from some faraway place, that you picked up and swung around as she laughed. We shared a bed, but it wasn’t because of injury or nightmares or grief, it was because we chose to, every night, endlessly. All the time.”

“What else?” Merlin asks softly, and with his words, Arthur remembers where he is. Who he’s talking to.

“There…there was nothing else,” he says roughly. He shoves back his chair and stands, and the screech of the chair against the stone fractures whatever trance they had sunk into. “You should go, Merlin.”

“Of course, my lord,” Merlin murmurs, and gets up. Arthur can’t make his legs move, they’re rooted to the floor where he stands, and when Merlin comes to his side of the table to collect dishes, he can’t make himself step back.

“Merlin,” Arthur tries to say, but it comes out of his mouth as a dry squeak. He’s too close now, entirely too close. Merlin’s body is a hairsbreadth away, the scent of skin and sweat and soap overpowering the saccharine smell of the wine they had drunk.

“Merlin,” he tries again, and this time Merlin straightens up, his arms full of trays and stacked dishes. He sets them slowly back down on the table, and when he looks back up, his eyes are full of a hunger, a visceral ache Arthur’s never seen before. To his shock, he has to resist the impulse to step back.

“Tell me more,” Merlin says longingly, as though the wants of his mind and body are no longer his to control. “I want to know what else you thought about. When you thought about spending your life beside a servant, I want to know what crossed your mind.”

“I—I don’t—”

“Yes you do. Tell me.”

Merlin’s tone is sturdy and strong now, like he’s used to drawing information out of people, and Arthur gives in easily.

“I saw you standing beside me on the throne dais. Not behind me. Beside me. I saw—a—a home, a life. You were…you were court physician, or something akin to that, I—I don’t remember.”

“Did you love me?”

A half-choked, mangled laugh escapes Arthur’s throat. “Don’t. Don’t make me.”

“Do you love me now?” Merlin whispers.

“Damn it, Merlin, stop—stop it, don’t make me do this.” Arthur can barely force the words out anymore. The tension has grown sharp enough to cut glass, and just when Arthur is about to open his mouth and say it, abandon whatever pride he had left in capitulation to the man before him, a king bowing to a servant—Merlin steps back, his eyes abruptly cloudy with regret.

"I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice has lost that alienating command. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Arthur says as solidly as he can manage. His fingernails are digging into the grain of the wood. “You—that was—”

“Cruel,” Merlin finishes, wincing at his own choice of words. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Arthur shakes his head mutely.

Merlin begins to pick up the plates again, one by one, but he only has two balanced on the crook of his arm when he speaks again. “Care to tell me what you want for your morning meal?”

“Anything,” Arthur answers automatically. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin takes an ever-so-small step closer.

“No plums, actually,” Arthur says, fighting against the tremble in his voice.

“Right,” Merlin says softly. Arthur can almost count his eyelashes. “What’ll it be instead, then?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer. Merlin is already leaning forward and kissing him, a swift press of lips, and before Arthur has a chance to process it Merlin is already stepping back, flushing.

“Sorry,” he says. His eyes are glittering with fear and anticipation. “It’s just—”

"Right,” Arthur says, right before he steps forward and kisses him again. Merlin makes a sound against his mouth, something faint and incomprehensible. Arthur slides his arms around Merlin’s waist, tugging him in closer, and Merlin must lose his grip on the dishes, because Arthur hears them shatter against the ground.

It is utterly quiet. There’s no blood roaring in Arthur’s ears, no thudding heartbeat, and what little sound he can focus on is the slick slide of Merlin’s lips against his own, Merlin’s ragged breath, the sound of his own fingers brushing against Merlin’s shirt. Limp arms rise up to wrap around Arthur’s neck, fingers twining in his hair, and Arthur groans into Merlin’s mouth. For the first time in a very long time, there aren’t a thousand problems splitting his brain open. Every cell is focused on this. It feels perfectly natural to kiss Merlin, like learning this part of themselves is just as ordinary and miraculous as the sun rising in the East.

Arthur breaks away, gasping for air, but can’t make himself step further away than an inch. Instead he leans his forehead against Merlin, who laughs in relief. Their breaths mingle in the searing space between their mouths as Arthur’s hands cup his face like something undoubtedly precious, and one of Merlin’s hands slides down to clasp Arthur’s wrist. It’s warm and reassuring and real against Arthur’s skin.

“Why now,” Arthur asks hoarsely. “What changed—”

“Nothing,” Merlin exhales almost before the words have left Arthur’s mouth. “Nothing changed. But I had to. It cost so much to say no. Gaius was complaining about my mood for weeks, and—”

“Can we not talk about Gaius when you’ve just had your tongue in my mouth,” Arthur says, wrinkling his nose, and Merlin’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. Arthur grins as he sees it, and leans in to kiss him again. This kiss isn’t gentle or kind; it pushes at both of them, hard and wanting, and Arthur pulls Merlin against him so he can feel every inhale and exhale of his chest, every needy breath they both cling to as their lips bruise against each other.

Arthur presses forward so Merlin stumbles backwards, Arthur’s hands are sure on his waist, and Merlin’s head knocks against the post. He giggles into Arthur’s mouth, hands curling in his shirt.

“Sorry,” Arthur mumbles, unable to help the smile that quirks his lips.

“Mm…not complaining,” Merlin says, and when Arthur pulls away to look at him, Merlin’s eyes are dark, and he’s pink all the way up to his ears.

“Your eyes,” Arthur murmurs. His thumb traces along the delicate tip of Merlin’s cheekbone. “They’re almost violet. Do you know that? As bright and deep as purple silk.”

“Waxing poetic now, are we,” Merlin says wryly, tilting his head to kiss the inside of Arthur’s palm. His eyes never leave Arthur’s. “I’m not doing that,” he whispers against Arthur’s hand. “I’m terrible at poetry.”

“I know,” Arthur says hazily. His brain feels like it’s temporarily handed in its notice. “Remember that one speech you tried to write? It was such a travesty, I burned it.”

“As I recall, you quoted it at me for weeks. Never let me forget.”

“I still won’t,” Arthur says. Merlin spares him a brief, wicked grin before he’s a sudden blur of motion twisting around Arthur. Before he realizes what’s happened, Arthur trips back against the bed and ends up lying flat against the mattress. Then Merlin is on top of him, swinging one lithe leg over Arthur’s hips so he’s straddling him.

“By all the gods,” Arthur manages, and pulls Merlin down to kiss him again. “And all this time I thought you were such a clumsy sod…”

Merlin shrugs. His eyes are dancing, sparks of fire burning in dark water. “I’ve learned a few things over the years.”

“Can’t use that to defend yourself, oh no,” Arthur mumbles. “Have to half-kill yourself every time we so much as visit the Darkling Wood, but now that you’ve finally decided to do something about me…”

“All about motivation,” Merlin says, and tugs Arthur’s shirt up until he’s wriggling out of it. As soon as he’s free he takes the hem of Merlin’s shirt and pulls it up over his head, and he’s faced again with the score of faded wounds that map his body.

“What’s wrong?” Merlin says, staring down at him. His expression must have changed, Arthur thinks. “Am I—”

“What _happened_ to you,” Arthur asks in disbelief, tracing the puckered scars wreathing his torso. Merlin shudders under his touch.

“I’m…I’m a servant…these are reminders. I work hard, Arthur.” His expression is closed as a shutter as he speaks.

“Don’t lie,” Arthur says harshly. “I know these scars. These are the scars of a fighter, a soldier. A knight. Why do you have them?”

Merlin hesitates, and now Arthur can see the conflict flickering across his features. “I’ve—we’ve been in a lot of battles together.”

“This is from when you go off by yourself,” Arthur says slowly. “All the times you’ve been taken, all the times I was knocked out and you weren’t…Merlin…these are marks of—of torture. Of horrible things.”

Merlin squirms under his scrutiny. “You want to talk about this? Now?”

“How many times have you risked your life for me?”

“Just…a few. A couple. Once or twice.”

“Never again,” Arthur says loudly. “Not now that I’ve got you. You stay with me.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Oh, do I?”

Arthur raises a hand to cradle Merlin’s face. Merlin leans into it, eyes closing. His hand covers Arthur’s.

“Yes,” Arthur says, but he can’t quite finish the word, and it trails into nothing. “You stay with me,” he repeats.

“I have never left you,” Merlin answers quietly.

When their lips meet again, Arthur’s fingers press into the flesh of Merlin’s waist. They slide around to his front, brushing the skin beneath his navel, and Merlin jerks in his grip.

“Didn’t know you were ticklish.”

“Shut up,” Merlin says, pulling apart the ties at Arthur’s trousers and then shucking off his own.

Arthur begins to mark out the scars, one by one and Merlin tells the story of each one until his voice begins to tremble, and stories of blood and hatred dissolve into whimpers and strangled-off gasps for air. Everything Arthur sees melts into a faint luminescent haze, smears of colour like oil paint as Merlin twists and curves from underneath him, toes curling and beads of sweat forming. Arthur can taste it on his skin, Merlin is radiating need, and every push and pull of his hands, his skin under Arthur’s fingers, begs him to go faster, harder, to give away more, and Arthur does.

When it’s over and Merlin is lying on Arthur’s bed, dark hair pasted to his forehead and pink mouth open and slack, chest still heaving with pleasure, Arthur slides his hand into Merlin’s damp one. Merlin automatically tightens his grip, and Arthur lays back and smiles breathlessly, his vision still swimming with drained euphoria, and turns his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words bubble up to his tongue, and in the end he simply looks. The curve of Merlin’s face and the shine of his hair, all these things that exist in every human being are magnified and made more by Arthur’s eyes, drinking in every minor scrape and patch of dry skin, the slightly crooked eyebrow, the chapped lips.

A slow, gentle smile curves those same lips. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says in a stupor of awe. He reaches forward and brushes a few strands of black hair out of Merlin’s eye. “I guess I am.”

“This isn’t going to be easy, is it,” Merlin says after a moment. The smile fades from his mouth. “This isn’t going to be about comfort or sex or convenience.”

“Were you under the impression it was?” His voice is wry. “After everything that I said?”

“I thought some of that might fade.”

“It’s not fading.”

“I wish I could be sure,” Merlin whispers. “I wish I knew.”

“Do you think I’m going to get bored with you?”

“I think you’re going to shag me a few times when you have a mind to, come to the conclusion that I really am just a servant, and then fire me because you’re too embarrassed to tell me that you’re finished,” Merlin says dryly.

Arthur’s jaw drops in astonishment. “You think that little of me?”

“It’s not that I think so little of you, it’s just—you’re not—I’m—I grew up in Ealdor, I’m not a prince, I’m—we—”

Arthur rolls his eyes, tilts Merlin’s chin up, and leans forward to kiss him. Merlin dissolves into it, making a soft noise of surprise in the back of his throat. When Arthur pulls back, Merlin huffs and pushes forward to kiss him again. His lips are dry and warm moving against Arthur’s, and it’s too easy for Arthur to lose all sense of where he is. Reality feels fluid, coursing like saltwater currents breaking around him. The only thing that’s solid is Merlin.

“I won’t say I love you,” Arthur murmurs as soon as Merlin has pulled away. “I’m not going to say it, because this is new and different and we just don’t know yet, but mostly because I don’t want to scare you away.”

Merlin snorts weakly.

“But you mean so much to me. Do you understand that? Don’t tell me that you’re not a prince, or that you grew up sleeping on the ground, or you were only ever meant to be a servant.”

“But I—”

“Stop it! Stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Fine,” Merlin relents. “Fine.”

“Just give me this one night,” Arthur says, stroking Merlin’s cheek.

“Wasn’t that our deal before?” Merlin asks, one corner of his mouth curling up. “One night, and then we’d stop?”

“This is different. One night to have peace. To learn about each other. Not to think.”

Merlin studies him, eyes scouring Arthur’s expression. When he seems to be satisfied, he nods hesitantly. “All right. One night.”

With those words, something between them eases. The tension that had been coiling in the air unwinds. Merlin gets up to quench the candles as Arthur watches appreciatively from his bed, whistling so Merlin turns around to glare at him.

Really, Arthur thinks beneath the haze of happiness, nothing has changed. He will still get up tomorrow with a half-healed wound in his chest and hair just an inch too long to be comfortable. A kingdom under his jurisdiction will come to him with untold fears and ask him to soothe their restless minds. His father’s tongue will still be withering in his mouth from disuse and new knights will still trip over both themselves and each other, but Arthur can’t make himself dread any of it. Some small, core piece of him has irreversibly shifted with the touch of the man lying next to him.

The night passes slowly; with whispers of promises and half-strung declarations of love neither of them want to admit to. For one night the kingdoms behind their eyes live and breathe between them, in the touch of their hands, in the space between their mouths, so close their heartbeats create a rhythm, so subtle they cannot hear it.


End file.
